Gaius had to have known, Amara thought. He had to have been aware of the repercussions of calling the southern winds to bear her north to the valley. He had been crafting too long, and knew the forces that affected his realm too well for it to have been an accident. Thus, clearly, the First Lord had intended the storm. But why?
Amara stared out at the bleak night, frowning. She would be trapped until the storm relented. And so will be anyone else in the Valley, fool, she thought. Her eyes widened. Gaius, with this act, had effectively called a halt to any activity within the Calderon Valley until the storm had relented.
But why? If speed had truly been of the essence, why rush her here, only to fence her off from acting? Unless Gaius felt that the opposition was already in motion. In that case, her arrival would put an effective freeze on their activities, perhaps giving her a chance to rest, regain her balance, before acting.
Amara frowned. Would the First Lord truly arrange such a deadly storm, a furycrafting of proportions she could scarcely visualize, merely to allow his agent to rest?
Amara shivered and wrapped the cloak around her a little more tightly. She could only deduce so much of Gaius’s reasoning. He knew far more than most in Alera ever could—most would not even begin to grasp the scope of it. He was oftentimes a subtle ruler: Rarely did his actions have only one objective, only one set of consequences. What else did her ruler have in mind?
Amara grimaced. If Gaius had wanted her to know, surely he would have told her. Unless he trusted her competence to work out on her own what he intended. Or unless he still doesn’t trust you.
She turned away from the doorway and padded silently back into the chamber, her thoughts in a whirl. She leaned against a wall beside one of the stone guardians, denuded of his cloak, and raked her fingers through her hair. She had to get moving. Surely, the enemies of the Crown would not be idle once the weather broke. She had to have a plan, at least, and get to work on it right away.
The first order of business, Fidelias would have said, would be to gather intelligence. She had to establish what was going on in the Valley before she could effectively do anything about it, whether it be to act, to invoke her authority as a Cursor of the Crown to the local Count, or to report back to Gaius.
She swallowed. All she had to help her was the knife she’d stolen from Fidelias’s boot and some clothing far too light for the weather it seemed she would be faced with. She looked back at the boy, curled on his side before the fire, shivering.
She also had him.
Amara moved to the boy’s side and laid a hand on his forehead. He let out a soft groan. His skin was too hot, feverish, and his breathing had dried out his lips, cracked them. She frowned and went back to the water, cupping her hands together and carrying it back to the boy. She urged him to drink and tried to tip the water into his mouth. Most of it trickled through her fingers and splashed onto his chin and neck, but he managed to swallow a little. Amara repeated the process several times, until the boy seemed to relax a little, settling down again.
She studied him as she fetched another of the scarlet capes, folded it into a pad, and slipped it beneath his head. He was a beautiful child, in many ways, his features almost delicate. His hair curled around his head, dark, glossy ringlets. He had the long, thick lashes that so many men seemed to have and not care about, and his hands had long, slender fingers that seemed entirely oversized to the rest of him, promising considerable growth yet to come. His skin, where not marred with bruises or scratches, glowed with the ruddy clarity of youth that had somehow avoided awkward adolescence. She hadn’t seen what color his eyes were, in the hectic events of the previous evening, but his voice had been clarion-clear in the storm, bell-sharp.
She frowned more seriously, studying the boy. He had almost certainly saved her life. But who was he? They were a considerable walk from any of the local steadholts. She had chosen her landing site in order to avoid coming down within sight of any of the locals. So what had the boy been doing there, in the middle of nowhere, in that storm?
“Home,” the boy murmured. Amara looked down at him, but he hadn’t opened his eyes. His face twitched into a frown in his sleep. “I’m sorry, Aunt Isana. Uncle Bernard should be home. Tried to get him home safe.”
Amara felt her eyes widen. Bernardholt was the largest steadholt in the Calderon Valley. Steadholder Bernard was the boy’s uncle? She leaned closer and asked him, “What happened to your uncle, Tavi? Was he hurt?”
Tavi nodded, a dreamy motion. “Marat. The herdbane. Brutus stopped it but not before it bit him.”
Marat? The savages hadn’t given the Realm any trouble since the incident on this very site, fifteen or sixteen years ago. Amara had felt skeptical when Gaius had voiced his concern about the Marat, but apparently one had come into the Calderon Valley and attacked an Aleran Steadholder. But what did it mean? Could it have been one lone Marat warrior, a chance meeting in the wilderness?
No. Too coincidental for mere chance. Something larger was under way.
Amara clenched her hand on the fabric of the cape in frustration, wrinkling it. She needed more information.
“Tavi,” she said. “What can you tell me of this Marat? Was he of the Herdbane tribe? Was he alone?”
“Had ’nother one,” the boy mumbled. “Killed one, but he had ’nother one.”
“A second beast?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Where is your uncle now?”
Tavi shook his head, and his expression twisted with pain. “Here. Was supposed to be home. Sent him home with Brutus, Brutus should have brought him back.” Tears had started down his cheeks, and Amara swallowed upon seeing them.
She needed information, yes. But she couldn’t torment an unconscious child for it. He needed rest. If he was the Steadholder’s nephew, and the man had survived the attack, she could bring him home safely and almost certainly secure the Steadholder’s enthusiastic cooperation.
“’M sorry,” the boy said, broken and still weeping quiet tears. “I tried. Sorry.”
“Shhhh,” she said. She used an edge of the cloak to wipe the tears away. “Time to rest now. Lie down and rest, Tavi.”
He subsided, and she frowned down at him, smoothing his hair back from his fevered forehead while he slept. If a lone Marat was in the Valley, perhaps the Steadholder had gone to hunt it down. But if so, then why would this boy be along? He had no particular skill at crafting, she judged, or he would have used it when the windmanes had been attacking them. He bore no weapons, no equipment. He couldn’t have been hunting the Marat.
Amara inverted the idea. Had it hunted the folk of Bernardholt? Possible, particularly from the Herdbane tribe, if all that she heard of the Marat was true. They were a cold and calculating people, as ruthless and deadly as the animals that accepted them as one of their own.