Amara shook her head and focused on the stones of the causeway beneath her feet. Though she felt some empathy for the boy, she could not allow his plight to distract her from her task, namely, to discover what was happening within the Valley and then to take whatever action she thought best to see to it that the realm was protected. She already had some facts to piece together, and her attention was best spent on them.
The Marat had returned to the Calderon Valley, something that had not happened in nearly seventeen years. The Marat warrior Tavi and his uncle had confronted could well have been an advance scout for an attacking horde.
But the growing light of day made that possibility seem increasingly remote, bringing inconsistencies to light. If they had truly encountered a Marat, why had the boy’s uncle showed virtually no relief upon finding his missing nephew? For that matter, how had the Steadholder been on his feet again at all? If the wounds were as serious as the boy had described, it would have taken an extremely talented watercrafterto have had Bernard on his feet again, and Amara didn’t think that anyone that skilled would live far from one of the major cities of the Realm. Surely, the injury must have been less than the boy described—and if that was true, then perhaps the incident with the Marat had been likewise exaggerated.
Put into the context of fiction, Tavi’s tale of his adventures the previous day made a great deal more sense. The boy, crushed with feelings of inadequacy, could have made up the tales in order to make himself feel more important. It was a far more plausible explanation of what he had told her.
Amara frowned. It was a more plausible explanation, but the boy’s courage and resourcefulness could not be denied. Not only had he survived the violent furystorm of the evening before, but he had also rescued her — at considerable danger to himself—when he could have taken himself to safety without risk. Such courage, conviction, and sacrifice rarely went hand in hand with falsehood.
In the end, Amara decided that she had very little information to work with, until she had spoken to the uncle as well—and he seemed to be in no mood for any kind of discussion. She would have to learn more. If the Marat were preparing to attack again, defending against them would require a major mobilization, at the end of the year and at fantastic expense to both the High Lord of Riva and the Crown’s treasury. There would be resistance to such news— and if she went to the local Count with nothing more than the word of a shepherd boy to go on, she would doubtless hear endless repetitions of the tale of the boy who cried thanadent. She would need the testimony of one of the Count’s trusted landowners, one of the Steadholders, to get more than a token response.
The best reaction she could hope for in such a case would be for the Count to dispatch scouts of his own to find the enemy, and even if they managed to return from such a deadly encounter, it might be with a Marat horde on their heels. The Marat could swallow the valley in one assault and ravage the lands around Riva, while its High Lord, held captive by the onrush of winter, could do little but watch his lands be destroyed.
Ideally, with Bernard’s testimony, she might get the Count to mount a more active defense from Garrison, and to send to Riva for reinforcements. Perhaps even manage a preemptive strike, something that might disperse the wave of an oncoming horde before it broke upon the Realm’s shores.
On the other hand, if there was no imminent invasion and the Crown’s agent roused the local Legions and incurred vast expenditure on Riva, it would be a major embarrassment before the other High Lords, and the Senate. Gaius’s reputation might not survive the subsequent attacks, further agitating the already restless High Lords with what could be tragic results.
Amara swallowed. Gaius had assigned her to represent his interests in the Valley. Her decisions would be his. And while he would bear the moral and ethical responsibility for her actions here, the High Lords might demand legal retribution against her for the misuse of Crown authority—and Gaius would be compelled to grant it. Imprisonment, blinding, and crucifixion were some of the gentler sentences she could expect from such a trial.
The Crown’s reputation, the possible security of the Realm, and her own life rode upon her decisions. Best she make them carefully.
She needed more information.
They came to Bernardholt some time just after the sun reached its peak.
Amara was struck at once by the solidity of the place. She had been born and raised in a steadholt, and she knew the signs of a strong holding—and one in a heightened state of alert. The steadholt’s central buildings had walls higher than some military encampments, reaching nearly twice the height of a man and made of seamless, dark grey stone, laboriously raised from the ground by a powerful earthcrafter. The gates, heavy oak bound with steel, were half-closed, and a grizzled holder wearing an old sword stood on the wall above them, squinting laconically out over the distance.
Outbuildings stood not far from the walls, all of them one-story affairs, including what looked like a forge, vast gargant burrow, a combination barn and stables, and several animal pens. The granary, she knew, would be within the central enclosure, along with the kitchens, the living areas, and several smaller holding pens for animals, usually used only in emergencies. A pair of gargants, tended by a tall, handsome young man with wind-ruddy cheeks and black hair, stood in harness, waiting patiently while he threw several long, heavy ropes into a sack and secured it to one side of the harness.
“Frederic,” Bernard called, as they drew closer. “What are you doing with the team?”
The young man, already tall and strong for a boy not yet old enough to depart for the Legions, tugged at a forelock with one hand and ducked his head to the Steadholder. “Taking them down to the south field to pull out that big stone, sir.”
“Can you handle the fury in that one?”
“Thumper and me can, yes sir.” The boy started to turn away. “Hullo, Tavi. Glad you’re back in one piece.”
Amara looked at the shepherd boy, but Tavi barely lifted his gaze to the other young man. He waved a hand, the motion vague.
Bernard grunted. “There’s another storm in the air. I want you back in two hours, Fred, whether the stone’s moved or not. I have no intentions of more people getting hurt.”
Frederic nodded and turned back to his work, as Bernard strode on to the gates, nodded to the watchmen over them, and slipped into the steadbolt proper. Once inside, Bernard said, “Tavi.”
The boy, without waiting to hear anything else, paced toward the side of the great hall and flung himself up the wooden staircase built along the outside of the building and into a door on the upper story, where Amara knew living quarters would commonly be situated.
Bernard watched the young man vanish inside with a grimace on his face. Then he let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at her. “You, come with me.”