“I can’t,” Amara said. “I have to get moving. To find Tavi, or at least try to warn the Count at Garrison.”
“You aren’t going anywhere tonight,” Bernard said. He nodded toward the darkness at one side of the cavern they huddled in, where Amara could distantly hear the howl of wind. “That storm came down and it’s worse than I thought it would be. No one’s moving tonight.”
She looked at him, frowning.
“Lay down,” he told her. “Rest. No sense in making yourself more tired.”
“What about you?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.” His hand pushed gently on her shoulder. “Rest. We’ll go as soon as the storm breaks.”
Amara stopped struggling against the warmth easing into her with a sigh of relief and let his hand push her down. His fingers tightened slightly, and she felt the strength of them through her skin. She shivered, feeling at once a sense of reassurance and a sudden spasm of raw, physical need that curled in her belly and lingered there, making her heart speed up again, her breathing quicken.
She looked up and saw in his face that he’d seen her reaction. She felt her cheeks color again, but she didn’t look away.
“You’re shivering,” he said, quiet. His hand didn’t move.
She swallowed and said, “I’m cold.” She became acutely aware of her bare legs, brazenly on display, and curled them up toward the shirt (his shirt) that he had draped over her.
He moved then, his hand sliding from her shoulder. He stretched out on his side, his chest against her shoulders, so that she lay between him and the fire. “Lay back against me,” he said, quiet. “Just until you get warm.”
She shivered again and did, feeling the strength of him, the warmth of him. She had an urge to roll onto her other side, to press her face into the hollow of his shoulder and throat, to feel his skin against hers, to share that closeness, that warmth, and the thought of it made her shiver again. She licked her lips.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m . . .” She swallowed. “Still cold.”
He moved. His arm lifted, then draped across her, careful, strong, drawing her back a bit more firmly against him. “Better?”
“Better,” she whispered. She turned, hips and shoulders, so that she could see his face. Her mouth lay a breath from his. “Thank you. For saving me.”
Whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips, and his eyes focused on hers, then on her mouth. After a moment of aching silence, he said, “You should go to sleep.”
She swallowed, her eyes on his, and shook her head. She leaned toward him then, and her mouth touched on his, his lips just a little rough, soft, warm. She could smell him, his scent like leather and fresh wind, and she felt herself arch into the kiss, slow and sweet. He kissed her back, gently, but she could feel the faint traces of heat in it, feel the way his mouth pushed hungrily at hers, and it made her heart race even more swiftly.
He ended the kiss, lifting his mouth away from hers, his eyes closed. He swallowed, throat working, and she felt his arm tighten on her for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and said, “You need to sleep.”
“But—”
“You’re half frozen, and you’re afraid,” Bernard said, quiet. “I’m not going to take advantage of that.”
Her face colored, and she looked away from him. “No. I mean—”
He laid his hand on her head and pressed gently down. His other arm shifted, moved beneath her head, so that her cheek rested against it instead of her own. “Just rest,” he said, quietly. “Sleep.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. Despite herself, her eyes blinked closed and refused to open again.
“I’m sure, Amara,” he said, voice a low rumble she felt against him as much as heard. “Sleep. I’ll watch.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to —”
She felt him lean down to her and press his mouth against her damp hair. “Hush. We can talk about it later, if you want to. Rest.”
Her cheeks still warm, Amara leaned back against his warmth and sighed. Sleep took her before she remembered drawing that breath in again.
The light woke her. She still lay by the fire, but the cloaks that had been drying now lay over her, keeping her warm, but for her back, which felt as though it had just begun to cool. Bernard wasn’t in sight, and the fire had burned low, but grey light shone from one side of the small cave.
Amara rose, wrapping the cloaks about herself, and walked toward the mouth of the cave. She found Bernard there, still shirtless, staring out at a landscape shining in the predawn light, ice coating every surface, every branch of every tree. Sleet-ice mixed with snow lay over the ground, softening everything with white, making sounds seem closer, granting the land the strange half-glowing light of winter. Amara stopped for a moment, just to stare at the land and then at Bernard. His expression was hard, alarmed.
“Steadholder?” she asked.
He lifted a finger to his lips, eyes focused elsewhere, head tilted to one side, as though listening. Then his eyes snapped abruptly to the south, at the still-shadowed trees that stood in silent, glinting stillness.
“There,” he said.
Amara frowned at him, but stepped closer, wrapping the cloaks a little more tightly about herself against the cold outside. Winter had come in force, with the storm. She glanced at Bernard and then at the trees he stared at so intently.
She heard it before she saw anything, a low swelling sound that began to gather, to grow closer. It took her a moment to identify the sound, to sort it out into something she could recognize.
Crows. The cawing of crows. The cawing of thousands of crows.
Even as she started to shiver, they appeared, black shapes against the predawn sky, from the direction Bernard faced, flying low over the trees. Hundreds of them, thousands, flooded through the air like a living shadow, blackening the sky, flying north and east over the Calderon Valley, moving with an uncanny certainty, with a purpose.
“Crows,” she whispered.
“They know,” Bernard said. “Oh, furies. They always know.”
“Know what?” Amara breathed.
“Where to find the dead.” He let out an unsteady breath. “They smell a battle.”
Amara felt her eyes widen. “They’re flying toward Garrison?”
“I have to find Tavi and Isana. Get back to the steadholt,” Bernard said.
She turned to him and took his arm. “No,” she said. “I need your help.”
He shook his head. “My responsibility is for my holders. I have to get back to them.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “Bernard, I need your help. I don’t know this valley. I don’t know the dangers. I’m afraid to take to the air in daylight, and even if I got to your Count alone, he might not listen to me. I need someone he knows with me. I have to get him to react to this as strongly as possible if there’s to be any chance of protecting the Valley.”
Bernard shook his head. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Is it going to have anything to do with you when a Marat horde comes down on Bernardholt?” Amara demanded. “Do you think you and the people there will be able to fight them?”