Amara wiped the hand she'd touched the spy with upon her skirts, rubbing hard. Then she stepped outside and got the keys to the woman's shackles from the legionare on guard. As she stepped back into the cell, Lady Aquitaine touched her arm, her features returned to normal, her expression one of displeasure. "What do you think you are doing?"
Amara stopped in her tracks and met the High Lady's cold gaze in a sudden flash of confidence and steel-hard certainty.
Lady Aquitaine's eyebrows rose, startled. "What are you doing, girl?"
"I'm showing you the difference, Your Grace," she said. "Between my Realm. And yours."
Then she went to Rook and removed the shackles. Bernard caught the spy before she could collapse to the floor. Amara turned and summoned the legionare, then sent him to fetch a healer's tub and water to fill it.
Rook sat leaning weakly against Bernard's support. The spy stared up at Amara, expression mystified. "I don't understand," she said. "Why?"
"Because you're coming with us," Amara said quietly, and her voice sounded like a stranger's to her ear, certain and powerful. "We're going to Kalare. We're going to find them. We're going to find Lady Placidus and Atticus's daughter and your Masha. And we're going to take all of them away from that murderous slive."
Bernard shot a glance up at her, hazel eyes suddenly bright and somehow wolfish, glowing with a fierce and silent pride.
Rook only stared at her, as though she was a madwoman. "N-no... why would you... is this a trick?"
Amara knelt and took Rook's hand between hers, meeting her eyes. "I swear to you, Rook, by my honor that if you help us, I will do everything in my power to take your daughter safe away from him. I swear to you that I will lay down my own life before I let hers be lost."
Rook stared at her in silent shock.
Without ever looking away from the prisoner's eyes, Amara pressed her dagger into the spy's grasp, and lifted it so that Rook held the blade against Amara's throat. Then she dropped her hands slowly away from the weapon.
Bernard let out a short, sharp hiss, and she felt him tense. Then abruptly he relaxed again. She saw him nod at her out of the corner of her eye. Trusting her.
"I have given you my word," she said quietly to Rook. "If you do not believe me, take my life. If you wish to continue your service to your lord, take my life. Or come with me and help me take your daughter back."
"Why?" Rook demanded in a whisper. "Why would you do this?"
"Because it is right."
There was an endless, silent moment.
Amara faced Rook, calm and steady.
Then Amara's knife clattered to the stones. Rook let out a sob and collapsed against Amara, who caught her and supported her weight.
"Yes," Rook whispered. "I'll tell you anything. Do anything. Save her."
Amara nodded, lifting her eyes to Bernard. He laid his hand on Amara's hair for a moment, fingers warm and gentle. He smiled, and she felt her own smile rise to answer his.
"Your Grace," Amara said after a moment, looking up, "we need to depart at once. The guard should be bringing a healing tub. Could you please see to Rook's injury?"
Lady Aquitaine stared down at the three on the floor, her head tilted to one side, frowning as if faced with a mystifying silent theater performed by lunatics. "Of course, Countess," she said after a moment, her voice distant. "I am always glad to serve the Realm."
Tavi slept in a tent he shared with several other junior officers. In the middle of the night, unusual noises disturbed his rest, and a moment later Max shook him roughly awake. "Come on," Max ordered him in a low, growling whisper. "Move it."
Tavi rose, pulled on his tunic, grabbed up his boots, and followed Max out into the night. "Where are we going?" Tavi mumbled.
"To the captain's tent. Magnus sent me to get you," Max said. "Something's up." He nodded down another row of tents as they passed, and Tavi looked up to see other figures moving quietly through the night. Tavi recognized the shadowy profile of one of the Tribunes Tactica, and a few moments later, the ugly, rough features of Valiar Marcus, the First Spear, appeared from the night and fell in beside them.
"Marcus," Max muttered.
"Antillar," the First Spear said. "Subtribune Scipio."
Tavi abruptly stopped in his tracks, and looked up. The sky was overcast, making the night very dark, though the clouds were low and swift-moving. Thunder rumbled far in the distance. Through gaps in the cloud cover, the stars glowered down in sullen shades of crimson. "The stars," he said.
Max looked up and blinked. "Bloody crows."
The First Spear grunted without slowing his pace.
"What's happening?" Tavi asked him, catching up.
The First Spear let out a snort but said nothing, until they arrived together at the captain's tent. The senior officers were there, much as they had been on the day Tavi arrived. Magnus and Lorico were both there, and passing out mugs of strong tea to the officers as they arrived. Tavi took one, found a quiet spot against the wall of the tent, and drank the hot, slightly bitter tea while struggling to blink the sleep from his eyes. Gracchus was there, and looking hungover. Lady Antillus was at hand as well, seated with her hands folded in her laps, her expression distant and unreadable.
Tavi had begun to feel almost as though he could string several thoughts together into something resembling intelligence when Captain Cyril entered, immaculately groomed, fully armored, the picture of self-possessed command. The quiet murmurs of the sleepy officers came to a sudden halt.
"Gentlemen, Your Grace," Cyril murmured. "Thank you for coming so promptly." He turned to Gracchus. "Tribune Logistica. What is the status of the stores of standard-issue armor and weaponry."
"Sir?" Gracchus said, blinking.
"The armor, Tribune," Cyril said in a rock-hard voice. "The swords."
"Sir," Gracchus said. He rubbed at his head. "Another thousand sets to go, perhaps. Inspections should be finished in another week."
"I see. Tribune, do you not have three junior officers to assist in inspections?"
Max let out a quiet, nasty little laugh from beside Tavi.
"What?" Tavi whispered.
"Legion justice is slow but sure. This is why the captain wanted you here," Max said. "Listen."
"Yes, sir," Gracchus mumbled.
"And in a month's time, you and your three assistants have been unable to complete this fundamental task. Why is that?"
Gracchus stared at him. "Sir, I was aware of no particular need. I had my officers working on several different-"
"Latrines?" Cyril asked in an arch tone. "Armor and sidearm inspections are to be completed by dawn, Tribune."
"B-but why?"
"Perhaps this isn't as important as your nightly binges at the Pavilion, Tribune, " Cyril said in an acidic tone, "but captains appoint a Tribune Logistica because they like to make sure our legionares have armor and swords when they march to battle."
Electric silence gripped the room. Tavi felt his spine straighten in surprise.
"Finish the inspections, Tribune. You'll do them walking on the road if you must, but you will complete them. Dismissed." Cyril turned his attention from Gracchus to the rest of the room. "Word reached me moments ago. We are at war."
A low murmur of responses went through the officers in the tent.
"I have my orders. We are to proceed west to the town at the Elinarch. The bridge there is the only one over the entire western leg of the Tiber River. The First Aleran is to secure that bridge."
The officers murmured again, low and surprised.
The Tribune Auxiliarus, Cadius Hadrian, stepped forward. His voice was deep and very quiet. "Sir. What about the stars?"
"What about them?" Cyril asked.
"Do we know why they've changed color?"
"Tribune," Cyril said calmly, "stars do not concern the First Aleran. Our only concern is that bridge."
Which Tavi took to mean that Cyril had no idea, either.
Valiar Marcus took a step forward from his place against the tent's wall, and said, "Captain. With all due respect, sir, most of the fish aren'.t ready."
"I have my orders, First Spear," Cyril said. He looked around at the officers, and said, "And now you all have yours. You know your duties." He lifted his chin, and said, "We march at dawn."
When the stars burned red, the inhabitants of Westmiston did not panic so much as freeze in place, like a hare who senses a predator nearby.
Ullus had shaken Ehren from his sleep without a word, and they had gone out of the bungalow to stare up in total silence. The other folk of Westmiston did the same. No one carried a light, as though afraid to be noticed by something looking down on them.
No one spoke.
Waves broke on the shore.
Wind stirred fitfully, restlessly.
The sullen light of the stars illuminated nothing. The shadows grew, their edges indistinct, and within the light all movement was veiled, blurred, making it difficult to tell the difference between stationary objects, living things, and the shadows themselves.
The sun rose the next morning, pure and golden for a few moments-but then it took on a sullen, sanguine hue. The colors of sunset looked bizarre with the light coming down from overhead, strong and bright. It was unsettling. Few folk moved about Westmiston. Those who did sought wine, rum, and ale. The captain of the only ship currently in the harbor was murdered in the street at noon, cut down by his own crew when he ordered them down to the harbor to set sail. The body lay untouched where it fell.
Sailors stared fearfully up at the sky, muttering darkly under their breaths and making superstitious gestures of warding and protection. Then they drank as much alcohol as possible, walking over their former captain's remains to enter the wine house.
Ullus stepped out of his bungalow to squint up at the sky, fists on his hips. "Bloody crows," he complained, his tone personally offended. "Everyone in the whole crowbegotten town is staying indoors. This could be bad for business."
Ehren set his pen down for a moment and rested his forehead on the edge of his desk. He bit back a dozen insulting replies and settled for a sigh before he went back to his writing, and said, "You may be right."
Someone began ringing the town's storm bell.
Ullus shook his head with disgust, stalked over to a cabinet, and jerked out a large bottle of cheap rum. "Go see what that fool of a watchman is on about now."
"Yes, sir," Ehren said, glad to be able to move. Like everyone else, except possibly Ullus, Ehren was worried about the portents in the sky, the haze of blood over sun and stars. Unlike everyone else, Ehren knew about the vast storms that the Canim had hurled at the western shores of Alera only a few years ago. Ehren knew that their ritualists were capable of great feats of power rivaling or surpassing the furycraft of the Realm.
And Ehren knew that an unscrupulous captain with no time to spare and a suspiciously large load of goods to sell had, three weeks and one day ago, sailed from Westmiston for the Canim homeland.
The bloody-hued sky was surely no natural event. If, as he suspected, it meant that the Canim were exerting their power again, and this time on a scale no one had dreamed they could manage, then business was going to be very bad in Westmiston-and anywhere else within sailing range of Canim raiders.
He finished the line he was working on-his notes, encoded in a cipher known only to the Cursors, rather than the books Ullus assumed he was balancing. He'd already prepared a summary of all that he had learned in the past months, and only the last several days' worth of observations needed to be added to the small, waterproof case at Ehren's belt.
He did so, then left the bungalow, jogging down toward the harbor at an easy pace. His footsteps sounded loud in the unusual silence of the islands. It did not take him long to see why the watchman had begun ringing the chimes-a ship had arrived in the harbor. It took him a moment to be sure, but when he saw Captain Demos on deck, he recognized the vessel as the Slive. She had come in under a strong wind and full sail, and her crewmen moved with the jerking haste of tired men with no time to spare.
A sudden gust of cold wind pushed at Ehren, and he peered out at the western horizon. There, far out over the sea, he could see a long line of darkness on the horizon. Storm clouds.
The Slive spent its incoming momentum on a sudden turn, and her timbers shook and groaned. A bow wave pressed out ahead of the vessel, high enough to send a sheet of seawater over the quay, before the ship itself bellied up to the quay, already facing back to the west, toward the mouth of the harbor, ready to run for open water.
Ehren was suddenly very sure that he wanted off the island.
He headed on down to the harbor and went out along the rickety old quay to the Slive.
Two men loitering on deck with bows in hand took note of him as he did. Ehren slowed his steps cautiously as he approached the ship, and he stood well back from the gangplank as it was cast down.
Captain Demos was the first man onto the plank, and he gave Ehren a flat stare with nothing human in it but for an instant of recognition. He nodded, and said, "The fence's scribe."
"Yes, Captain," Ehren said with a bow of his head. "How may I serve you?"
"Take me to your master, and be quick." He whistled sharply without using his fingers, and half a dozen men dropped what they were doing and came down the gangplank after him. Each of the men, Ehren noted, was large, armed, and looked unfriendly. In point of fact, every single man aboard was armed, even as they readied the ship to depart again. There were even a few pieces of armor in evidence-mostly abbreviated chain shirts and sections of boiled leather.
That was hardly the normal state of affairs, even on a pirate vessel. Weaponry presented nothing but a hindrance to a sailor in the rigging. Wearing even light armor on a ship was all but a death sentence should one fall into the sea. No sailor, pirate or otherwise, would don such gear without a compelling reason.
Ehren found Captain Demos staring at him with an unnerving amount of intensity and no expression on his face. His hand rested negligently on the hilt of his sword. "Question, scribe?"
Ehren looked up at Demos, sensing that he was in immediate danger. He bowed his head carefully, and said, "No, sir. It is no business of mine."
Demos nodded, and lifted his hand from his sword to gesture for Ehren to precede them. "Remember it."
'Yes, Captain. This way, sir."
Ehren led Demos and his men up to Ullus's bungalow. The fence came out to meet them, wearing a rusted old gladius through his belt, his face set in a scowl made fearless by drink. "Good day, Captain."
"Fence," Demos said, his tone flat. "I am here for my money."
"Ah," Ullus said. He looked at Demos's armed escort and narrowed his eyes. "Well as I said, sir, three weeks was hardly time enough in which to liquidate your articles."
"And as I said. You will pay me in cash for anything not sold."
"I wish I had enough to afford it," Ullus said. "But I don't have access to such a great amount of coin in this season. If you come back to me in the autumn, I should have more available."
Demos was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I regret it when business deals do not work out-but I made my position clear, fence. And whatever kind of snake you may be, my word is good." He turned his head to his men, and said, "Cut his throat."
Ullus's sword came to his hand readily enough, out before any of Demos's armsmen drew. "That might not be as easy as you think," he said. "And it will profit you nothing. My coin is hidden. Kill me, and you will not see a copper ram of it."
Demos lifted a hand, and his men stopped in their tracks. He stared at Ullus for a second, then said, "Bloody crows, man. You really are that stupid. I thought it was an act."
"Stupid?" Ullus said. "Not so stupid that I'd let you run roughshod over me on my own island."
Ehren remained very still, over to one side, where he might duck behind the bungalow should weaponplay commence. He felt the wind change quite suddenly. The fitful, restless breeze that had danced idly around the island for all of that day vanished. Something like the breath of some single, enormous beast rushed across the island in a single, enormous moan. The wind rose so suddenly that the pennons on the banner poles on the harbor snapped, their tips cracking like whips as the wind, hot and damp, sent the banners streaming to the horizon.
Demos's attention flicked to the wind banners, and his eyes narrowed.
Some instinct cried out to him, and Ehren turned to Demos. "Captain," he said. "In the interests of saving time, I have an offer for you."
"Shut up, slave," growled Ullus.
Demos glanced aside at Ehren, his eyes flat.
"I know where his coin is hidden," Ehren said. "Grant me passage to the mainland, and I'll show you where it is."
Ullus whirled on Ehren in a fury. "Who do you think you are, you greasy little tosspot? Hold your tongue." He brandished the rusty sword. "Or I will."
"Captain?" Ehren pressed. "Have we a bargain?"
Ullus let out a cry of pure rage and rushed at Ehren, sword rising.
Ehren's small knife appeared from its hiding place in his tunic's roomy sleeve. He waited until the last moment for Ullus's strike, and then slipped aside from it by the width of a hair. His knife struck out, a single stroke that left a cut two inches long and almost as deep.
Ullus's throat sprayed blood. The ragged fence collapsed to the ground like a groggy drunk abruptly sure that it was time for a nap.
Ehren stared down at the man for a moment, regret sharp in him. Ullus was a fool, a liar, a criminal, and Jie'd doubtless done more than his share of despicable deeds in his time-but even so, Ehren had not wanted to kill him. But if Ehren's instincts were correct, he'd had little choice. It was imperative that he leave the island, and Demos was his only way out.
He turned to Demos and leaned down to wipe the blade of his little knife clean on the back of Ullus's tunic. "It would seem that your own arrangement with Ullus has been resolved in accordance with your terms. Have we a new bargain, Captain?"
Demos stared at Ehren, with neither more nor less expression on his face than before. He looked briefly at Ullus's body. "It would seem I have little choice if I am to collect my coin."
"That's true enough," Ehren agreed. "Captain, please. I have a sense that we do not wish to stand around talking about this all day."
Demos's teeth showed in an expression that was not a smile. "Your technique is sound, Cursor. "
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
Demos grunted. "They never do. Passage is one thing. Involving myself in more politics is another."
"And more expensive?" Ehren asked.
"Commensurate with the risk. Dead men spend no coin."
Ehren nodded once, sharply. "And your own loyalties, sir?"
"Negotiable."
"Ullus's coin," Ehren said. "And a like amount upon return to Alera."
"Double the amount on return," Demos said. "Cash, no vouchers or letters of marque. You're buying passage, not command of my vessel. And I'll have your word not to go out of my sight until paid in full."
Ehren tilted his head. "My word? Would you trust it?"
"Break it," Demos said, "and the Cursors will hunt you down for sullying their business reputation."
"True enough," Ehren said, "if I worked for them. Done."
Demos jerked his head in a nod. "Done. What do I call you?"
"Scribe."
"Take me to the coin, scribe." He turned to one of his men. "We set sail at once. Get a slave detail and take any women or children you can see on the way back."
The men nodded and started back to the harbor. Demos turned to find Ehren frowning at him. "We'd best move."
Ehren jerked a nod at him and led him to the back of the bungalow, where Ullus thought he'd built a clever hiding place into the woodpile. Ehren recovered the entirety of Ullus's cash fortune in a leather sack and tossed it to Demos.
The captain opened the sack and dumped some of its contents onto his palm. They were a mix of coins of all sorts, mainly copper rams and silver bulls, but with the occasional gold crown mixed in. Demos nodded and headed back for the ship. Ehren followed, walking on the man's left, a stride away, where he would have time and room to dodge should the pirate draw his sword.
Demos seemed briefly amused. "If I wished to be rid of you, scribe, I wouldn't need to kill you. I'd leave you here."
"Call it a professional courtesy," Ehren said. "You aren't a smuggler or a pirate."
"I am today," Demos said.
Armed members of the Slives crew rushed past. Behind them, Ehren heard screams as the men began seizing women and children and shackling them.
"And a slaver, too," Ehren said, trying to keep his tone calm. "Why?"
"This most recent enterprise has ended in a less-than-satisfactory fashion. I'll sell them when we reach the mainland and defray some of my expenses," Demos said. He glanced out to the west, as they headed down the quay, his eyes on the rising blackness of the storm there.
After that, Demos fell silent until they boarded the Slive. Then he began to give orders immediately, and Ehren hastened to stand out of the way. The slave patrol brought in a score of chained prisoners, while several other men fought a brief, ugly brawl with inhabitants of Westmiston who objected. A pirate was slain, the townsfolk beaten back with half a dozen dead. The women and children passed within a step of Ehren when the slavers hurried them into the hold, and he felt nauseated at their distress, their sobs, their cries of protest.
Perhaps he could find some way to help them when they returned to Alera. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and tried not to think on it, while Demos and his crew rigged the ship and headed for the harbor, tacking against the strong wind while men strained at the oars to give the ship all possible speed while the darkness of the storm grew and grew, until it looked like nothing so much as great mountains looming up on the horizon. It was unnerving, as every sailor aboard the Slive threw his strength into driving the ship directly at that glowering, ominous tide of shadow, until they could clear the harbor and round the island.
They had just broken into the open sea when Ehren saw what his instincts had warned him about.
Ships.
Hundreds of ships.
Hundreds of enormous ships, broad and low-beamed, sailing in formation, their vast, black sails stretched tight and full by the gale sweeping along behind them. The horizon, from one end to the other, was filled with black sails.
"The Canim," Ehren whispered.
The Canim were coming in numbers more enormous than any in Alera's history.
Ehren felt his legs turn weak, and he leaned against the Slive's railing for support, staring out at the armada plunging toward them. Distantly, in Westmiston, he could hear the storm chimes ringing in panic. He turned to see the drunken, disorganized crew of the other ship rushing down to the docks-but at the speed the Canim fleet was moving, they would never escape the harbor before they were cut off by black sails.
The Slive rounded the northernmost point of the island of Westmiston, and her crew adjusted the rigging for running before the wind instead of into it. Within minutes, the Aleran vessel's grey canvas sails boomed and stretched tight before the dark storm's windy vanguard, and the Slive leapt into the open sea.
Ehren paced slowly aftward, until he stood staring off the Slives stern. Ships detached themselves from the Canim fleet and fell upon Westmiston, wolves to the fold.
Ehren looked up to find Demos standing beside him.
"The women and children," Ehren said quietly.
"As many as we could carry," Demos said.
Smoke began to rise from Westmiston.
"Why?" Ehren asked.
Demos regarded the Canim fleet with dispassionate calculation. "Why let them go to waste? They'll fetch a fair price."
The man's lack of expression, whether in word, movement, or deed, was appalling. Ehren folded his arms to hide a shiver. "Will they catch us?"
Demos shook his head. "Not my ship." He lifted a hand abruptly and pointed out to sea.
Ehren peered. There, between the Slive and the oncoming armada, a sudden wave rose directly up from the sea, against the flow of the others. Ehren could hardly believe what he was seeing, until water began to break around the massive shape that had risen from the sea. He could see few details, from this distance, but the black, enormous shape that stirred the surface would have stood taller than the Slives sails.
"Leviathan," he breathed. "That's a leviathan."
"Little bit shy of medium size," Demos agreed. "They're territorial. Those Canim ships have been stirring them up as they passed for the last ten days."
A deep, booming thrum ran through the water, so powerful that the surface of the tossing sea vibrated with it, tossing up fine spray. The ship shook around them, and Ehren clearly heard a plank give way and snap somewhere below them.
"Damage party, starboard aft!" Demos bellowed.
"What was that?" Ehren breathed. The soles of his feet felt odd, aftershocks of the vibration still buzzing against them.
"Leviathan complaining," Demos said. He glanced at Ehren, and one corner of his mouth might have twitched for a second. "Relax, scribe. I've two witchmen below. They'll keep us from bothering the leviathans."
"And the Canim?"
"We've seen four ships smashed, but it hasn't slowed them down. There, look."
The vast shape in the water moved for a moment, toward the armada, but then descended, water crashing into its wake, swirling in a vortex for a time even after the leviathan dived. By the time the first Canim ship reached the spot, there was nothing but a restless remnant of the enormous beast's presence, a rough-stirred sea. The Canim ship broached it, spray flying, and held its course.
"Say this much. Those dogs don't have a yellow bone in them," Demos murmured, eyes distant. "All but the biggest leviathans get out of the way of that storm coming behind the Canim. They'll take a few more losses on the way over, but they'll get through."
"You were carrying a message to them?" Ehren asked.
"That's no business of yours," Demos said.
"It is if you're complicit with them, Captain. Did they simply let you escape them?"
"Didn't let me," Demos said. "But then I didn't give them much choice in the matter. They weren't as sneaky as they thought they were. Crows'll go hungry before I let some mangy dog-priest stick a knife in my spine."
"Priest?" Ehren asked.
Demos grunted. "Robes, books, scrolls. Talks a lot of nonsense. Name was Sari."
Sari. Formerly the chamberlain to Ambassador Varg at the capital-and the creature who had plotted with the vord to strike down the First Lord. Sari, who had escaped from Alera, despite all the efforts of the Legions and lords to find and stop him. Sari, who, Ehren was now sure, must have had help inside of Alera.
"Kalarus," Ehren murmured.
Demos sent Ehren's earlier words back at him, imitating the scribe's inflection. "I don't know what you mean, sir."
Ehren studied the man for a moment, sure that the overt denial held covert confirmation. If so, then Demos had been hired by Kalarus to take a message to the Canim-who had promptly attempted to kill him before he could escape. Obviously, Demos had no intentions of participating with the authorities by way of retribution-that kind of criminal seldom found others willing to do business with them down the line. But he must have been angered by the betrayal, enough to let Ehren obliquely learn who had hired him and what was happening.
"You know what this means," Ehren said, shaking his head. "A messenger. This armada. It's war, Captain. And you are not the only one who has been betrayed."
Demos stared aft and said nothing. The darkness that was the storm driving the Canim armada swallowed the island of Westmiston entirely.
Ehren turned to face Demos. "I'll triple the amount of your pay if you get us back to Alera in time enough to warn the Legions. No questions asked."
The mercenary glanced at him, silent for a long moment. Then his teeth showed again, and he nodded, very slightly, to Ehren. "Bosun!"
"Aye, skipper?"
"Reinforce the mainmast, hang out all the laundry, and warn the witchmen! Let's make the old bitch fly!"
Isana opened her eyes and thought she was going to faint. Septimus, with his usual delicate, precise touch, had slipped a ring onto her finger so lightly that she had not felt him doing it.
The hand looked like silver, hut was so delicately wrought that she could barely feel its weight. The setting was of a pair of eagles, facing one another, supporting the jewel upon their forward-swept wings. The stone itself was cut into a slender diamond shape, hut the gem was like nothing Isana had ever seen, brilliant red and azure, divided precisely down the center without any detectable seam.
"Oh," she breathed quietly. She felt her eyes bulging, her cheeks growing pink. "Oh. Oh, my."
Septimus let out a quiet laugh, and she could sense his pleasure at her reaction, and Isana felt that same surge of joy well up inside her, just as it had the first time she had heard his laugh. Her mouth failed her, and she only sat, staring up at Septimus, drinking in his features. Dark hair, intense green eyes, tall, strong. He was so handsome, his expressive face able to convey volumes of meaning without speaking at all, and his voice was low, rich, strong.
They sat together on a spread blanket at the shore of the little lake near the Legion garrison in the Calderon Valley, under the harvest moon. They had taken their meal together there, as they had so many times since the spring, feeding one another and speaking quietly, laughing, kissing.
He had asked her to close her eyes, and Isana had complied, sure that he was about to show her some new jest.
Instead, he had slipped a ring bearing all the marks of the House of Gaius onto her left ring finger.
"Oh, Septimus," Isana breathed. "Don't say it."
He laughed again. "My love, how could I not?" He reached out and took both of her hands in his. "I cursed my father when he sent the Legion all the way out here," he said quietly. "But I never thought I would meet someone like you. Someone strong and intelligent and beautiful. Someone..." He smiled a little, and it made his face look boyish. "Someone I can trust. Someone I want to stand beside me, always. I can't take the chance that I might lose you if the Legion is ordered elsewhere, my love." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Marry me, Isana. Please."
The world started spinning in wild circles, but Isana could not take her eyes away from the only stable thing in it-Septimus, his eyes bright and intense in the moonlight.
"Your f-father," Isana said. "I'm not even a Citizen. He would never allow it."
Septimus flicked an irritated glance in the general direction of the capital. "Don't worry about that. I'll deal with Father. Marry me."
"But he would never accept it!" Isana breathed.
Septimus shrugged and smiled. "The shock will be good for him, and he'll get over it. Marry me. "
Isana blinked, shocked. "He's the First Lord!"
"And I am the Princeps," Septimus said. "But our titles don't really come into it. He may be the First Lord, but he is also my father, and great furies know that we've locked horns more than once. Marry me."
"But it could cause you such trouble," Isana pressed.
"Because Father seeks to preserve the old ways, my love." He leaned toward her, eyes bright and intent. "He does not see that the time is coming when those ways must change-when they must make Alera a better place for everyone-not just for Citizens. Not just for those who have power enough to take what they want. The Realm must change." His eyes blazed, conviction and passion suffusing his voice. "When I become First Lord, I'm going to be a part of that change. And I want you with me while I do it."
Then he moved, pressed Isana gently down to the blanket, and kissed her mouth. Isana s shock was transformed into a sudden hurricane of delight and need, and she felt her body melt and move, pressing sinuously against his as he kissed her, his mouth soft, strong, hungry, searing hot. She had no idea how long the kiss went on, but when their lips finally parted, Isana felt as if she was on fire, burning from the inside out. The need was so great that she could barely focus her eyes.
His mouth slid over her throat, then pressed a slow, tingling kiss against the skin covering her fluttering pulse. He lifted his head slowly, and met her eyes with his own. "Marry me, Isana," he said quietly.
She felt an answering need in Septimus, the feral call of the flesh, the rising tide of his passion, the warmth and the love he felt for her-and then she saw something else in his eyes. There, just for an instant, was a flutter of uncertainty and fear.
Septimus was afraid. Afraid that she would say no.
It nearly broke Isana s heart, just seeing the potential for his grief. She lifted a hand to touch his face. She would never hurt him, never bring him pain. Never.
And he loved her. He loved her. She could feel it in him, a bedrock of affection that had grown and grown and grown, answered by the same in Isana.
She felt her eyes blur with tears at the same time she let out a breathless burst of laughter. "Yes,"she said. "Yes."
A surge of Septimus's joy flowed into her, and she flung herself onto him, rolling him onto his back so that she could kiss him, face and throat and hands, to taste him, to drink in the warmth and beauty of him. Reason disintegrated under the joy, under the need, and Isana's hands moved as if of their own will, tearing open his tunic so that she could run her hands and nails and mouth over the tight muscle beneath it.
Septimus let out an agonized moan, and she felt his hips surge up against hers, felt the hot hardness of him pressed against her so tightly that she thought they might simply burst into flame together.
He seized her face between his hands and forced her eyes to his. Isana saw everything she'd already felt in them, saw how much he wanted to simply let go, give in to the moment. "Are you sure?" he said, his voice a growling whisper. "You've never done this. Are you sure you want this now?"
She couldn't trust her lips to answer, her tongue to function. They were far too intent upon returning to his skin. So she sat up and stared down at him, panting, mouth open, and dug her fingernails into his chest while arching her back, pushing her hips back and down against him, a slow, torturous motion.
Septimus could feel her, just as she could him. Words were neither needed nor wanted. His eyes glazed over with hunger and need, and he lifted her and pressed her down again, savagely took another kiss from her open, willing lips. His hand slid up one of her legs, brushing skirts aside, and there was suddenly nothing in her entire world hut passion, sensation, pleasure.
And Septimus.
They lay in one another's arms much later, the moon now settling down, though dawn was nowhere near. Isana could hardly believe what was happening to her. Her arms tightened on Septimus in languorous wonder, feeling the warmth of him, the strength of him, the beauty of him.
He opened his eyes slowly, smiling at her the way he smiled at nothing and no one else, and it made Isana feel deliciously smug, delighted.
She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into his chest. "My lord, my love."
"I love you, Isana," he said.
The truth of it rang in Isana's heart. She felt it between them, flowing like a river, running endlessly through both. "I love you, " she whispered, and shivered in pure delight. "This is... this is like a dream. I'm terrified that if I open my eyes, all of this will be gone, and I'll find myself in my cot."
"I couldn't bear it if this wasn't real," Septimus murmured into her hair. "Best you stay asleep then. "
Isana opened her eyes and found herself in a strange bedchamber.
Not in the moonlight.
Not young.
Not in love.
Not with him.
Septimus.
She'd had the dream before-memories, really, perfectly preserved, like a flower frozen in a block of ice. They made the dream so real that she could never remember, while it happened, that she was dreaming.
It hurt just as much to awake from the dream as it had all the times before. Slow, slow agony pierced her, taunted her with what might have been and never would be. It was pure torment-but to see him again, to touch him again, was worth the pain.
She didn't weep. She was long since past the tears. She knew the memories would fade before morning, washed away into pale ghosts of themselves. She just held on to those images as tightly as she could.
The door opened, and Isana looked up to find her brother leaning in the doorway. Bernard entered at once, strode to her bedside, and gave her a warm smile.
She tried to smile back. "Bernard," she said in a weary voice. "At some point, I would like a few weeks to go by in which I do not faint during a crisis."
Her brother leaned down and enfolded her in a vast hug. "Things will settle down again," he told her. "Lord Cereus says its because your watercrafting is so strong, without being complemented by enough metalcraft to endure your own empathy."
"Lord Cereus," Isana said. "Is that where I am?"
"Yes," her brother answered. "In his guest quarters. Cereus has offered the hospitality of his citadel to the Citizen refugees trapped here."
Isana lifted both her eyebrows. "Trapped? Bernard, what is happening."
"War," Bernard said shortly. "Lord Kalarus marches on Ceres with his forces. There will shortly be battle joined here."
"The fool." Isana shook her head. "I take it there is not time to leave?"
"Not safely," Bernard said. "You were particularly targeted by the assassins who attacked the restaurant, and there are agents of Kalare in the city and advance forces already in the area. You're safest here. Giraldi will stay here with you, as will Fade."
Isana sat bolt upright. "Fade. He's here, in Ceres."
Bernard hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the hall, in fact. And armed. And I've never seen anyone fight like he did." Bernard shook his head. "I always thought him just a disgraced legionare."
"Why is he here?" Isana demanded. "Why is he not with Tavi?"
Bernard blinked mildly at her. "Tavi? I know Gaius took Fade to the capital to serve as a slave in the Academy..." His frown deepened. " 'Sana? You're upset..."
Isana forced herself to set aside the rising sense of panic, smoothing her expression back to calm. "I'm sorry... I'm just so... I'll be all right, Bernard."
"You're sure?" Bernard said. " 'Sana, I... well, when you told me to buy Fade, I did it. Never asked you why. I was sure you had your reasons, but..." A heavy silence fell, and Bernard asked, "Is there anything you should tell me?"
Isana dared not meet her brother's eyes. "Not yet."
Bernard frowned at the answer.
Before he could ask another question, Isana nodded at Bernard's working clothes, his woodland cloak. "Where are you going?"
He hesitated for a moment and gave her a lopsided smile. "Can't say," Bernard said. "Not yet. Mission."
"What mission?" Isana asked. She tilted her head to one side and then said, "Ah, I see. Amara's mission."
Bernard nodded, somewhat sheepishly. "Yes."
"She makes you happy, doesn't she."
Her younger brother's face spread into a little smile. "Yes."
As Isana had Septimus. A little pang went through her, but she covered it with a smile. "From the rumors I've heard," Isana added drily, "very happy."
"Isana," Bernard rumbled, his face flushed.
Isana let her lips curl around a small silent chuckle. "Leaving soon, I take it?"
"Before it gets light. I was about to go," he said. "I was hoping you'd wake first."
"Will you..." She frowned. "Is it..."
He smiled at her and touched her shoulder again. "I'll be fine. I'll tell you all about it when we get back."
She could feel Bernard's confidence and honesty, through his touch on her shoulder, but she also felt uncertainty and fear. Though her brother was not in fear of his life, or ruled by his trepidations, he knew full well that he was going into danger and that nothing in the future was certain.
There was a knock at the door, and Giraldi opened it and stuck his head in. "Your Excellency," he said. "Your skinny Countess just blew past on her way to the tower. Said you should catch up."