Buy This From...

Prologue

Amara soared down in a slow, gradual descent through cold, heavy rain as she neared the camp of the Crown Legion.   Cirrus, her wind fury, held her aloft on the shoulders of a miniature gale, and though she wore the leather clothing any flier found necessary, she almost fancied she could feel her skin chafing through it, and she was definitely sick of shivering with the cold.

A trio of armored figures took flight and swept toward her upon their own furies' gales, and Amara slowed, hovering in place to meet them. It was the third and last perimeter around the camp, and one of the knights flashed a challenge in broad hand signals to her while the other two took position above her, ready to dive down upon her if necessary.

Amara recognized the men by sight, just as they would recognize her, but in these troubling times, a familiar face was not necessarily any assurance of a friendly party.   She gave them the countersign, and only then did the three Knights Aeris take their hands from their weapons and form up around her in a friendly escort as she wearily flew the last mile or so to the camp.

Amara did not land at the standard location, just outside the camp's palisade. She'd covered more than three thousand miles in the past three days, and the very thought of walking through the camp was nearly enough to knock her unconscious.   She came down just outside the commander's tent, despite the regulations against it and the debris Cirrus' approach would scatter all over the area. Her legs quivered, all rubbery with fatigue, as she settled her weight on them and ceased maintaining the effort to direct Cirrus.

"Countess," murmured a small, slender man, his few remaining grey hairs shorn close to his scalp, Legion-style. He was rather dapper in his fine tunic, but Amara knew that Enos, a former Cursor himself, was one of the deadlier knife-hands in Alera.   Mild disapproval in his voice did nothing to dampen his smile.   "Soaring in here as bold as you please, I see."

"I'm sorry to make extra work for you, Enos," Amara replied as they stepped underneath a nearby pavilion, out of the rain.

"Nonsense. I'll get one of our Subtribunes Logistica to tidy up. We valets are far too important for such things, you know. "  He offered her a warm towel, and after she had used it to wipe her face and hands, he pressed a steaming cup into her fingers.

Amara sipped at the thick broth and let out a groan of pleasure. Long flights always left her enormously hungry, and there'd been far more flying than eating over the past few days.   "Bless you, Enos."

"Not at all, Countess," he replied.   "The least I can do for someone who just beat the previous flight speed record from here to the capital by a full day."

"The First Lord doesn't pay me to lark about," Amara said, and flashed him a smile. "How much did you win?"

"Fourteen silver bulls," Enos said, his tone unrepentantly smug. "Lord Aquitaine's head valet just can't seem to help himself when it comes to gambling."

Amara finished the broth, and Enos immediately filled her hand with another mug of tea.   She sipped it.   Delicious.   Perhaps she'd manage to walk all the way to a warm bunk before she collapsed, after all.   "Is he available?"

"The Captain is in conference with Lord Aquitaine," Enos said. "But he insisted that I take you to him as soon as you arrived."

"Aquitaine," Amara murmured.   "Very well.   Thank you, Enos."

Enos bowed his head to her with another smile, and Amara strode over to the commander's tent.   Winters here in the south weren't nearly so frigid as in Alera's more northerly reaches, but they were generally cold, rainy, and miserable.   The tent was doubled, one slightly larger one outside another, creating a small pocket of warmer air between the interior and the outdoors. Amara opened one flap after another, and strode into Captain Miles' command tent.

It was a fairly spacious arrangement, lit by a trio of bright furylamps hung from the central post. The post itself was part of the large sand table in the center of the tent, one currently molded in the shape of the topography between the Legion's camp, at one end, and the city of Kalare at the other, with small models representing the various forces scattered about it.   Other than the sand table, the room contained a writing desk, several camp stools, and a single small trunk and bedroll resting upon a folding cot, Miles' only personal gear.

"And I'm telling you that it's the only way," growled Miles.   He was a man of average height, but built like a stone rampart, all stocky strength.   His armor bore the dents, scratches, and permanent scorch marks of the action it had seen since the beginning of Kalare's rebellion. There was grey threaded through his short, dark hair, and as he paced the length of the sand table, studying it, he moved with a slight but definite limp.   "If we don't move in concert we'll risk defeat in detail."

"Don't be such an alarmist," the second man in the tent said.   He was far taller than Miles, long-limbed, and sat on a camp stool with an easy confidence that made him seem to fill more of the tent than Miles. There was something leonine about him, from dark golden hair that hung to his shoulders to his dark, hooded eyes to the casual strength evident in his shoulders and legs. Aquitainus Attis, the High Lord of Aquitaine, wore a red silk shirt, dark leather trousers, and evidently felt no need to wear armor.   "If two years here have shown us anything, it's that Kalare can no more easily maneuver through the fens than we can.   The chances that he'd be able to catch your force in time are minimal."

Miles glared at the other man. "I note that if we follow this plan, your own forces will be completely insulated from danger."

"If it works," Aquitaine countered, "we roll up Kalare's mobile forces before summer is fairly underway, and besiege the city within two weeks after."

"And if it doesn't, my men face everything Kalare has left on their own."

"It is a war, Captain," Aquitaine said in a mild tone. "There does tend to be the occasional risk."

Miles snarled out something under his breath, and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

Aquitaine's teeth flashed in a slow, feline smile.   "Captain, don't you think we should hear from the good Countess before we discuss this further?"

Only then did Miles glance over his shoulder and see Amara.   There was color high in his cheeks and his eyes glittered with anger. He glowered at Amara for a moment, then shook his head, composing his expression, gave her a nod and said, "Countess, welcome."

"Thank you, Captain. "She nodded to Aquitaine. " Your Grace."

Aquitaine gave her a speculative stare and a bland smile.   Amara refused to allow herself to show the discomfort she felt under the man's gaze.   Aquitaine was quite probably unsurpassed in furycraft by anyone in the realm, save the First Lord himself—and Gaius was no longer a young man.   Though she had never seen him using it, she knew Aquitaine was a man of tremendous power.   It made her uncomfortable to be such a singular object of his attention.

"What news from the Crown?" Miles asked her.

"There is to be a council assembled for the War Committee to determine the course of this season's campaign," Amara said.   "The First Lord requests and requires your attendance, Captain, and yours Lord Aquitaine."

Miles made a rude noise. "First a Committee. And now a council."

"It's a committee for the Committee," Aquitaine murmured, his tone suggesting that the subject was one of the few in which he was in wholehearted agreement with Captain Miles.   "Ridiculous."

"When?" Miles asked.   "Where?"

"Three weeks from yesterday, my lords—at the Elinarch."

"Elinarch, eh?" Miles said. He grunted.   "Be nice to get to meet this young virtuoso running the First Aleran.   Heard a lot of   talk about him."

Aquitaine made a noncommittal sound. "If Kalarus decides to push our positions in person while we—" By which, Amara thought, he means himself. "—are away, our forces could be hard pressed."

Miles shrugged. "Intelligence reports suggest that the rumors of his invalidism are true.   I understand he sustained rather severe injuries in a fall, courtesy of Count Calderon. They seem to have incapacitated him."

"That may be precisely what he wishes us to think," Aquitaine pointed out, "to say nothing of his heir. Young Brencis lacks in experience, but his crafting talent is considerable."

"The First Lord has given us a command, your Grace," Miles said.

Aquitaine rolled his eyes and sighed as he rose to his feet.   "Yes, of course.  The old man plays the music and the rest of us dance. Captain, under the circumstances, I believe we can continue this discussion later."

"Suits me," Miles said.

Aquitaine nodded to them both and strode out.

Miles watched Aquitaine depart, took up a soldier's tin mug that sat on the sand table, and threw back a long draught of what smelled like ale.   "Arrogant jackass," he muttered. He glanced up at Amara. "He's doing it again."

"Doing what?" Amara asked.

Miles gestured at the sand table. "Inflicting casualties on Gaius' loyal troops."

Amara blinked. "How?"

"Nothing I could prove in a court. Aquitaine's legions fight beside us, but they're always just a little bit too slow, or too fast.   When the fighting starts, the Crown Legion ends up taking the worst of it. "He slammed the mug back down onto the sand table.   Granules of sand flew up from the impact.   "My men are dying, and there's not a crowbegotten thing I can do about it."

"He's very good at this sort of thing," Amara said.

"And I'm not," Miles replied. "He wants to use us up on Kalare, leave us too weak to oppose his legions once all the fighting is over."

"Hence your argument over strategy?" Amara guessed.

Miles grunted and nodded. "Bad enough fighting a war against the enemy in front of you, without having one marching next to you, too. "  He rubbed a hand over his bristling hair.   "And the Committee has too much influence on our strategies. Committees don't win wars, Countess."

"I know," Amara said quietly.   "But you know the First Lord's position. He needs the Senate's support."

"He needs their funding," Miles said in a sour tone. "As if he shouldn't have the right to expect their loyalty in a crisis simply because of who he is. "He turned and slapped the empty mug off of the sand table.   "Two years.   Two years of slogging through these crowbegotten fens, fighting Kalare's madmen.   We should have driven straight through to Kalare the same season he attacked. Now the best we can hope for is a hard fight through the bloody swamps and a siege of the city that might last years. I've had three men die of sickness for every one slain outright by the bloody enemy. I've seen bad campaigns before, Countess, but this is enough to turn my stomach."

Amara sipped at her tea and nodded.   "Then should I assume you wish the Crown to know that you want to be relieved of your command?"

Miles gave her a flat stare of shock. Then he said, "Of course not."

"Very well."

"Who would you trust with it, if not me?" Miles demanded.

"I only thought—"

"What?   That I couldn't handle it?"Miles snorted.   "No.   I'll think of something. "He turned back to stare at the sand table.   "But there's a major problem we've got to address."

Amara listened, stepping to the table beside him.

" Kalare and his forces aren't hard to contain.   If he moves too far from his stronghold, we'll crush them or else move in and take the city behind them.   We have the numbers for it. "   He nodded toward the table's 'north' end. "But the Canim are another story. Since they were thrown back from the Elinarch, they haven't pitched in on Kalare's side, but they haven't been fighting against him, either, and their presence secures his northern flank."

"While his presence secures the Canim's southern flank in turn."

"Exactly," Miles said. "That's bad enough. But if they redeploy to actually support Kalare, it's going to change the balance of force here dramatically."

"That's one of the reasons I'm here," Amara told him. "Gaius sent me to find out what you need to finish off Kalare."

"One of two things.   Either we commit more — dependable — forces here in the southern theater and drive to a decisive victory, or we neutralize the Canim in the northern theater so that we can hit Kalare from two sides at once."

Amara grimaced and nodded.   "I suspect that will more or less be the subject of the council at the Elinarch."

Miles nodded grimly, and scowled at the miniature forces deployed on the sand table. "Bloody rebels. Bloody, crowbegotten Canim.   If that new captain Rufus Scipio was all the rumors say he is , you'd think he'd have driven the dogs back into the bloody sea by now. He probably just got lucky."

"Possibly," Amara said, keeping her face carefully neutral.   She'd been anticipating Miles' reaction to the identity of the new captain for some time, and didn't want to tip him off now. "I suppose time will tell."

"Lucky," Miles growled.

"You are a lucky man, Aleran," Kitai said, her tone brisk and decidedly cool.   "A lesser woman than I would have broken your neck by now and had done with you. Why not leave well enough alone?"

Tavi looked up from where he sat on the ground, panting with effort. "It isn't well enough yet," Tavi replied.   "I'm still not where I want to be.   And I haven't been able to work any manifestation at all."

Kitai rolled her eyes and dropped lightly from the tree branch upon which she sat to the springy grass of the little dale.   The Marat girl wore a cavalryman's leather breeches along with one of Tavi's spare tunics—not that anyone with eyes would mistake her for a man.   She'd taken to shaving her silken white hair after the fashion of the Horse clan of her people—completely away, except for a long stripe running over the center of her head, which was allowed to grow long, the effect something like a horse's mane.   Her hair and pale skin contrasted sharply with her brilliant green eyes—eyes the precise color of Tavi's own—and gave her striking features an edge of barbaric ferocity.   Tavi never tired of looking at her.

" Aleran," she said, frowning.   "You can already do more than you ever thought you would be able to. Why continue to push?"

"Because willing a manifestation of a fury is the first step to all of the most advanced crafting techniques," he replied.   "Internalized crafting is all well and good, but the impressive things all rely upon manifestation. Bursts of fire. Healing. Manipulating the weather.   Flying, Kitai. Think of it."

"Why fly when you can ride a horse?" she asked, as if it was one of those questions only an idiot could have inspired her to utter aloud.   Then she frowned and hunkered down on her heels, facing Tavi, and met his eyes.

Tavi felt his eyebrows go up.   It was a piece of body language she only used when she was in earnest. He turned to face her, listening.

"You are pushing yourself too hard, chala," Kitai said.   She touched his cheek with one slender hand. "The Legion's war. Your work for Gaius.   These practice sessions.   You miss too many meals.   You miss too many hours of sleep."

Tavi leaned into the warmth of her touch for a moment, and his eyes closed. His body ached and his eyes burned most of the time, lately.   Savagely painful headaches often followed hard on the heels of his practice sessions, and they made it difficult to eat or sleep for a time afterward. Not that he had much choice, but to sacrifice time he might otherwise use to eat or sleep.   Command of the First Aleran was responsibility enough to consume the full attention of anyone, and his duties as a Cursor required him to gather information from every available source and report it back to his superiors in addition to his duties as the Legion's captain. Only the inexplicable resilience that he suspected came as a result of his bond to Kitai had left him with enough time and energy to teach himself all that he could of what meager furycraft he'd been able to grasp. Even so, the pace was wearing on him, he knew.

Kitai was probably right.

"Maybe," Tavi admitted.   "But there's not a lot of choice right now.   It takes years of practice to develop crafting skills, and I'm about fifteen years late getting started."

"I still think you should tell someone. It might go faster if you had a teacher."

Tavi shook his head.   "No."

Kitai let out an exasperated sound.   "Why not?"

"Because what I can do now isn't much," Tavi said.   "Not in the greater scheme of things. I'd rather what little I do have come as a surprise if I'm ever forced to use it."

Kitai shook her head.   "It isn't worth the risk that you might harm yourself by trying to learn without some instruction."

"I went to the Academy. I know all the theory," Tavi said.   Every dreary, humiliating, failure-ridden hour of those classes was burned into his memory along with his other childhood nightmares. "It's been two years and we're fine."

"So far, perhaps," she said. "I know little of furycraft, Aleran, but I know enough to respect how dangerous it can be.   So do others.   Would it not deter your would-be enemies if they knew you were a mighty furycrafter?"

"Yes, but . . . but we still don't tell anyone," Tavi said stubbornly.

"Why not?" Kitai demanded.

He broke their gaze and looked away for a long moment.   "I'm not sure," he said quietly. "It isn't time yet.   I feel it.   I know it. "He shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it to you any better than that. I need you to trust me."

Kitai frowned at him, then leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and rested her temple against his.   "You are insane.   And I am insane to pay any attention to you.   Very well."

Tavi leaned his head gently against hers.   "Thank you."

"I reserve the right to change my mind, of course."

"Of course," Tavi said, letting a tired smile shape his mouth. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "All right. One more try to call out that boulder fury and we'll call it a day."

"No," Kitai said, her tone perfectly firm.   "Enough practice for the day.   There are urgent matters that require your attention."

Tavi blinked at her.   "What?"

With a single, sinuous arch of her back and motion of her arms, Kitai stripped out of the white tunic, and pressed her naked skin against Tavi's chest. Her arms twined around his neck and her mouth lifted to his in a scorching kiss.

Tavi made a faint sound of protest, but the scent of her, of crushed wildflowers and clover and faint soap rose up and overwhelmed his senses, and the sheer, passionate fire of the kiss, the heat in her mouth and urgent hands left him unable to do anything but respond in kind.   Suddenly, Tavi could think of no very good reason to dissuade the Marat girl, and could only vaguely remember why he might have thought he should try. His hands glided around her waist, stroking over the soft, pale skin of her naked back, tracing the slender strength of the muscles just beneath her fever-warm skin, and he returned the kiss with rising ardor.

Kitai let out a low, hungry sound, and all but ripped Tavi's tunic from him.   She pushed him, but he turned with the force of it, spinning to press her down into the thick grass. She let out a wicked, sensual little laugh, and then arched up to meet him as he kissed her again. Her hands ran over his shoulders and back, her nails scraping deliciously over his skin, the sensation so intense and intoxicating that he didn't see the cavalry trooper that had approached them until her boots were an arm's length from his nose.

Tavi let out a yelp, and felt himself begin to blush from the roots of his hair to his toenails.   He fumbled for his tunic and sat up again, fairly certain that he was about to expire of pure mortification.

Kitai lay languidly on the grass for a moment, apparently unconcerned with her nakedness, and let out a regretful little sigh before she began to sit up as well. "Hello, Enna."

"Good day, Kitai," replied the trooper.   Enna wore Aleran-style boots and trousers, as Kitai did, but sported a coat of leather armor modeled after the lorica of the legions. Like Kitai, her hair was trimmed into a long mane allowed to flow down her back, but unlike her, the trooper's hair was dyed a vibrant shade of blue.   The Marat woman, a veteran of the Horse Clan, gripped a cavalry spear casually in one hand, and stood grinning down at the two of them.   "You needn't stop on my account, you know.   It's about time I got to look at more of this Aleran you've chosen. "  

Kitai returned her grin.   "See to it that looking is all you do."

Enna tilted her head to one side, studying Tavi with a frankness which accomplished the impossible, by making him feel even more embarrassed than he already did.   "Is he always pink like that?" Enna asked. "Or is it merely something he does to amuse you."

"Bloody crows," Tavi muttered, shoving his arms back into his tunic.

Kitai let out a peal of laughter, and then said, "He amuses me constantly, cousin."

Enna frowned and said, "But he's not a horse."

"No one is perfect," Kitai replied smoothly.

Tavi cleared his throat and reminded himself who was captain of this legion.   "Centurion," he said, forcing his voice into the deliberate, calm tones he always used when conducting legion business.   "Do you have something to report?"

Enna's amusement and interest lingered in her eyes, but she came to attention and saluted him, striking one fist to her heart.   "Captain.   Sir Cyril's compliments, and he thought you would want to know that Ehren has returned."

Tavi gave her a sharp glance and inhaled deeply.   His heart leapt in his chest, somehow transfixed by relief and anxiety at the same time.   Ehren had returned alive from his dangerous mission into the occupied Aleran territory now held by the inhuman Canim, and Tavi felt mightily relieved that he was back in one piece. Ehren's mission had not called for him to return this soon, though, and that was the cause of Tavi's anxiety.   If Ehren had cut the mission short early, it was because he had discovered something that couldn't wait. Tavi had several ugly speculations on what might be important enough to merit such an action on behalf of his friend and fellow Cursor, and the least unpleasant of them was more than a little troubling.

" Kitai," Tavi said quietly, and glanced at her.

The Marat girl was already several paces away, drawing her tunic back down over the supple curve of her back.   She untied the horses from where they'd left them.

" Enna," Tavi said, "ride ahead. Tell Tribune Maximus that I want all four of his alae ready to move, and alert Tribune Crassus that his Knights had better be prepared to ride as well."

Enna nodded sharply.   "Yes, sir.   What shall I tell the First Spear?"

"Tell him I want the Battlecrows mounted up," Tavi said. "Beyond that, nothing.   Valiar Marcus knows what needs to be done better than I do."

By that time, Kitai had returned with the horses, and Tavi swung up onto his own mount, a long-legged, deep- chested black he'd dubbed Acteon.   The stallion had been a gift from Kitai's aunt Hashat.   Well, not a gift, precisely, since the Horse Clan did not see their totem beasts as property.   From what Tavi understood, he had been entrusted to the horse's care in matters where speed was necessary, and the horse had been entrusted to his, in matters of everything else. So far, the arrangement had worked out.

Tavi wheeled Acteon as Kitai mounted her own barbarian-bred steed, a dappled grey mare who could run more tirelessly than any Aleran horse Tavi had ever seen. Enna turned and loped swiftly over to her own roan, equipped with the minimal amount of tack the Marat called a saddle, and sent it into an immediate run. There would be little point in attempting to keep pace with her—no riders on the face of Carna could match the pace set by the Horse Clan of the Marat.

He didn't need to say anything to Kitai.   The two of them had ridden out so often that by now, it was a matter of routine to send both their horses leaping into a run at the same moment, and together they thundered back toward the First Aleran's fortifications at the Elinarch.

"I know there haven't been orders yet," Valiar Marcus thundered, scowling at the stablemaster.   "Even if they never come, it's good practice for my men.   So you bloody well get those mounts prepared for the Battlecrows, and you do it now, or I'll have your lazy ass on a whipping post."

The stablemaster for Alera's first mounted infantry cohort gave the First Spear a surly salute and hurried away, bawling orders at the grooms that cared for the extra mounts.   Marcus scowled at the man's back.   You practically had to kick the man all the way to his job to get him to fulfill his responsibilities, and he was getting too old to spend that much energy on fools.   Good help, it seemed, remained hard to find, regardless of the fact that the realm was fighting for its life against the greatest threat to its integrity in at least four hundred years.

Marcus stalked through the lines of the First Aleran, their tents stretched in ruler-straight rows within the sheltering walls of the town at the Elinarch, the enormous bridge that stretched over the broad Tiber River. He stopped to have a quick word with a number of senior centurions along the way, putting them on alert that something was happening in officer country.   As often as not, a stir in officer country meant that the rank-and-file of the legion was about to be ordered to hurry up and wait, but it was always good for the centurions to look prepared and unfazed, no matter how sudden or urgent the news.

Marcus strode through the town. It had grown considerably in the two years the First Aleran had been using it as a base of operations.   In fact, the southern half of the town had been rebuilt from the paving stones up, and made into a fortress that had withstood two ferocious assaults from the Canim's elite warriors and twice as many tides of their howling raiders—before the Captain had taken the initiative and begun carrying the battle to the Canim invaders, hard enough to teach them to keep their distance from the Elinarch.   The streets were crowded with refugees from the occupied territory to the south, and in the marketplaces the price of food had climbed to outrageous levels—there simply wasn't enough to go around, and the demand had driven prices to unheard-of heights.

Marcus marched through all of it without slowing his pace.   No one hampered his progress.   Though he wasn’t a tall man, and though he did not look particularly more formidable than any other legionare, the crowd seemed somehow to sense his purpose and determination.   They melted out of his path.

Marcus reached the command quarters just as hooves began to make rhythmic thunder on the paving stone. Half a dozen of the First Aleran's Marat auxiliaries rode down the street, clearing the way for the Captain and the Marat Ambassador, returning early from their daily ride, and six more brought up the rear. Ever since those deadly Canim assassins that had come to be known as Hunters had tried their luck against the Captain and his woman, the young man had never been left unguarded.

Marcus frowned. The Captain's singulare, his personal bodyguard, normally a shadow rarely seen more than a few paces away from his back, was still missing from the camp. There was no explanation as to why, or where the man had gone.   Marcus, though, had no business querying the Captain on the matter. As the First Spear, the senior centurion of the Legion, he had unparalleled access to the command structure, when compared to any other foot soldier of the First Aleran—but even his comparatively broad authority had limits, and he dared not press them.

It would make people begin to ask dangerous questions.

Marcus shook off the unpleasant line of thought, and the uneasy quiver that ran through his stomach whenever he allowed it to occupy his thoughts.

"Marcus," the Captain said. The two traded a quick salute. "What have you heard?"

"Just got here, sir," Marcus replied.

The Captain nodded. "I've sent orders to have the auxiliaries ready to ride, as well as the Battlecrows."

"Already done, sir," Marcus said.

"Good man!"The Captain flashed Marcus a quick grin, startling for its boyishness.   The past two years had made even Marcus occasionally forget how young the Captain really was.   His poise, courage, and intelligence had guided the now-veteran Legion through a deadly war of maneuver with an unforgiving foe, and he had stood front and center, facing the danger with his men every step of the way. They loved him for it. The young Captain wore the mantle of command as naturally and capably as if he had been born to it.

Which was only natural, because, of course, he had.

Marcus' stomach twisted again.

It was easier to think of him as the Captain.   Whatever else the young man might be, in time, right now he was the Captain—and a Captain worthy of Marcus' loyalty.   Worthy of his respect.

Worthy of your honesty, whispered a poisonous little voice in his heart.

"Come on," the Captain said, his eyes and his thoughts both clearly focused on the command building. "If Ehren's back this soon, it means he's got something that can't wait. Let's find out what."

Valiar Marcus, whose true name was not Valiar Marcus, followed Captain Rufus Scipio, whose true name was not Rufus Scipio, into the fortified stone command building, and struggled with the sudden instinct that the days of pretending he was someone else were only too numbered.

Steadholder Isana of the Calderon Valley grimaced as the wagon hit a rough spot in the road, and made her blur a digit in the column of numbers she was tabulating on the little lap-desk.   She took a moment to take a breath and calm herself, reminding herself firmly that the frustration was a result of long weeks of labor and travel, and not the ineptitude of the wagon's builders, driver, the beasts pulling it, or the engineers who originally constructed the road.

She reached for a fresh piece of paper, but found the wooden box empty.   "Myra," she called to the cart driver's daughter. "Have you any more paper?"

"Yes, my Lady," called a young woman's voice.   The wagon creaked as someone moved about the front seat for a few moments, and then the curtain to the covered back of the wagon parted, and a scrawny, frizzy-haired darling of a girl appeared, holding out a fresh sheaf.

"Bless you, child," Isana said, taking the paper.

"Of course, my Lady," Myra said, beaming.   "Did you know that we're in the refugee territory now?   The guard showed me and papa the sight of a scare-mish with the Canim that happened right here by the road."

"Skirmish, dear," Isana corrected her.   "And yes, I know that there's been fighting on both sides of the river, on and off."

Myra nodded, her dark eyes intent, her young face serious.   "This caravan is very important, isn't it, my Lady?"

Isana began the botched page anew.   The eagerness she felt in the girl's presence was undermined by a sense of slowly dawning worry, an emotion Isana felt as clearly as she felt her own weary impatience, thanks to the constant, steady presence of her water fury, Rill.   "Yes, it is," she said, keeping her tone steady and calm to reassure the girl.   "That's why we're so well protected.   The food and supplies we're bringing to the refugees will help them survive the coming winter."

"And without it they'd starve," Myra said.   "We're helping them."

"Precisely," Isana said.

"And it's here because of you!" the girl said.

That was an oversimplification of staggering degree, but there was little point in trying to explain it to the carter's daughter.   "The supplies and money came from a great number of important and generous Citizens," she replied. "The leaders of the Dianic League.   I'm only keeping things organized."

Myra frowned. "But Papa said without you, all those old biddies wouldn't have done anything!"

Partly true, though she should hardly like to be the one to call, say, Lady Placida an old biddy. But Isana had managed to parlay the exposure she'd been given as Lady Aquitaine's rallying standard for the Dianic League into something far more useful than a trough for her patron's thirst for power.   Lady Aquitaine had not been at all amused at what Isana had done with the personal influence she'd gained, but if she'd tried to undermine Isana's relief project, it would have turned a great many minds in the League against her—and Lady Aquitaine knew it. That barely-simmering edge of irritation that had tinged Lady Aquitaine's presence every time Isana had spoken to her recently was almost reason enough to have endured the endless hours of effort she'd needed to gather support and put the relief column together.   Though if she admitted it to herself, that small victory was nothing compared to the misery and suffering the caravan would alleviate.

Isana was helping.   She was doing something good, something that she could be proud of—something Septimus would have been proud of.

Isana fought off a smile and a faint shimmer of tears at the same time. "Everyone wanted to do something to help the refugees, child.   They only needed someone to give them a way to do it."

Myra chewed on a fingernail and studied her steadily.   "Papa says you're important."

Isana smiled at the girl.   "Everyone's important."

"Myra," came the carter's voice from the front of the wagon. "Come away now, and let the Steadholder work."

"Coming, papa," the girl said. She gave Isana a smile and scampered back out of the wagon's rear.

Isana went back to her work on the inventory, and didn't look up from it until the caravan halted for its midday rest.   She kept working while the carters and muleskinners took their lunch. She hadn't been walking or driving or loading all morning, after all.

A shout of challenge went up outside from one of the caravan's mounted guards, and Isana felt herself tense up.   The caravan, while not transporting a great deal of liquid wealth, did have a considerable amount of material of use and value.   It was too large a target for bandits, but there was always the chance that the Canim might seize the food and supplies in order to feed their own doubtlessly-hungry soldiers.

No furor arose, though, and Isana relaxed, and kept to her inventories, until the trotting hoof-beats of an approaching horse came up to the wagon and stopped.

Isana looked up, frowning faintly, concentrating on her link with Rill—and suddenly bolted up from where she sat, spilling ink on her most recent page, and not caring in the least.   Her heart pounded in a fashion entirely too girlish to suit anyone of her age or her station or responsibilities, and she found herself fidgeting with her hair and straightening her dress.   Then she stared in dismay at her ink-stained fingers.   Doubtless she had just managed to spread smudges over her entire outfit, and possibly upon her face as well.   She felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

Boots hit the ground outside the wagon, and the horse shifted its weight.   Someone knocked upon the sideboards.

Feeling mildly ridiculous, Isana parted the curtains with one hand, and descended from the wagon, emerging into the noonday sunshine of the earliest days of spring in the Ameranth Vale.

A man of average height stood waiting for her, his dark hair shorn to regulation Legion length, his armor plain and showing signs of use.   The features of one side of his face were strongly carved, striking. The other half of his face was marred by horrible burn scars centered around the shape of the Legion brand for cowardice, high on his cheekbone.   He wore a simple sword at his side, and the scarlet half-cape of a Legion singulare.

Isana felt her heart speed up again as she smiled at him. " Araris."

His face turned up into one of his rare, swift smiles, and his eyes all but glowed from within. The sudden warmth of his emotions flooded over Isana, and she felt as if she might float up off the ground. She could feel his happiness and excitement at seeing her, his affection, and a certain, lazily controlled hunger for her that she knew would draw out spots of pink high on her cheeks.

"Isana," he said quietly.   She offered her hand.   He took it and bent over it, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. Isana felt the warmth of his breath as an impact that spread deliciously up her arm to dance along every fiber of her body.

He straightened, eyes sparkling, fingers tightening very gently around hers.   "You look . . . "   His eyes wrinkled at the corners.   "Inky."

Isana tilted her head back and laughed.

"And beautiful," he said. "I've missed you."

"And I you," she replied, covering his hand with her other one.   "What are you doing here?   We were to arrive at the Elinarch in another two days."

Some of Araris' smile trickled away.   "I bring you word.   Can we speak here?"

Isana glanced around them.   The carters and their crews were setting to a simple lunch at the cook's wagon, further down the line. There was no one nearby. "I believe so."

Araris nodded once.   "I am sent to caution you, of course, to remember that while you may be Tavi's blood kin, you have never met Rufus Scipio. You must take every precaution not to reveal his identity."

"Of course," Isana sighed.   "I'm not quite senile yet.   What else?"

Araris regarded her with a steady gaze for a moment.   Then he said, "When he was a child, it was right and proper that you should make decisions for him. "   He leaned forward, his fingers tightening on hers, giving his words gentle emphasis.   "He is no longer a child."

Isana felt her shoulders stiffening.   "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, in that same gentle tone, "that he has a right to know, Isana.   He has a right to know the truth.   He has a right to make his own decisions, now."

Isana jerked her chin up, the habit of two decades of worry and caution condensing into a flash of outrage and anger.   "Oh?  And who are you to decide such a thing?"

Araris' face never wavered.   "His singulare, Isana. His bodyguard and protector.   I safeguard his well-being and ward his life and freedom, with my own if necessary. And in my judgment, ignorance may prove dangerous to him. Even deadly."

Isana bit her lip, and looked down, unable to meet Araris' calm, unwavering eyes, awash in his continued, steady love, acutely aware of his concern for her, his respect, and his absolute sincerity.

He touched her chin with his fingertips, lifting her eyes to his.   "Isana," he said. "He's your son.   It is your place to tell him.   He should hear it from you. "   He shook his head.   "But if you can't—or won't—I will."

Isana flinched a little at the words, if not their quiet, steady tone. "Has it come to that? Really?"

"Yes."

The simple answer held absolutely no room for doubt.   Isana bit her lip. "He'll . . . Will he understand? Why I had to do it?   Lie to him . . . "   She shook her head.   "He's grown so fast, Araris."

"He'll understand," he said quietly.   "Or he won't. Either way, he deserves to know. He needs to know."

Isana shivered, and without being asked, Araris stepped forward, putting his arms around her.   She leaned against him gratefully, closing her eyes. His armor was warm from the gentle sunshine, and he felt steady, immovable, like an obdurate stone in a rushing stream. He was that.   He had always been there for her, and for Tavi, had always watched them, helped them, protected them, his presence and his trustworthiness something so elemental that she'd barely thought to question it, any more than she would have tested fire to be sure that it was hot, water to be sure it was wet.

All the same, it was a daunting thought. Telling Tavi the truth, after so many years of hiding it from him. From everyone.

"I don't want to tell him," she said quietly.

Araris nodded, silent and steady.

"But you're right."

He nodded again.

"I'll tell him."

Chapter One

"My ass hurts," said Antillar Maximus, Tribune Auxiliarus of the First Aleran.

"My ass hurts, sir," Tavi corrected him.

"Hey.   Sacred right."

Tavi grunted where he lay prone, and peered steadily through the yellow and brown winter grass of the Vale at the valley beneath them. "Just imagine if you'd marched here instead of riding."

"No thank you, sir," Max replied.   "I'm too busy imagining I decided to take a few more terms at the Academy so that I could practice my earthcrafting with wealthy and beautiful Citizen girls, sir, instead of riding around the back of beyond looking to pick a fight with big, scary monsters."

The two of them lay low, and Max's voice was pitched barely louder than a whisper, for all that it never stopped running. As long as they didn't stand up and present the enemy force marching through the valley below with a beautiful silhouette, they were far enough above them to avoid being seen. Probably.

"I make that four thousand," Tavi murmured after a moment. "You?"

"Forty two hundred," Max replied promptly.   For all his complaining, the big Antillan was every bit the trained observer Tavi was.   In fact, Tavi trusted his friend's estimate over his own.

Tavi frowned, thinking.   "Figure one cohort for camp security . . ."

". . . and one more for scouting ahead and behind as they march," Max continued the thought.

"Bloody crows," Tavi sighed.   "A full Legion."

Max let out a grim sound of agreement. "Looks that way."

Tavi felt a cold little shiver run along his belly.

In the valley below, an army of Canim marched steadily through the dry grass. The wolf-headed warriors moved with steady purpose, a good three thousand of them spread in a loose, horseshoe-shaped arrangement around a core of solid, heavily armored troops marching in ranks. Three thousand raiders shifting position would not have stirred Tavi to launch any kind of assault.   Conscripted Canim, with a minimum of military discipline, the raiders were dangerous only by virtue of their numbers and their tremendous size and strength. The average Cane stood between seven and eight feet tall, and that was in their standard, half-crouched posture.   Standing erect, they would have been a foot taller than that, and the sheer speed and power held within those lean frames was terrifying.

Still, the Canim army now occupying much of the territory of the cities of Ceres and Kalare could afford to lose three thousand of their dregs. It was the core of disciplined troops marching at their center, members of the elite Canim warrior caste, that had drawn Tavi from the fortifications.

A thousand of those hardened, disciplined, supremely dangerous troops represented a tithe of the Canim's total number of heavy infantry. In all their clashes with the Canim, the First Aleran had killed a relatively limited number of the warrior caste.   Canim losses had been almost universally drawn from among their raiders.   Nasaug, the leader of the Canim forces, never used his best troops except in devastatingly well-timed assaults, and the vast majority of Aleran losses had been at the hands of the Canim warrior caste.

Ehren's report of a thousand of them shifting position had represented an opportunity to inflict serious harm upon Nasaug's troops. A thousand were not so many as to be undefeatable, but more than enough to represent a significant lost to the enemy's prize corps of troops. When Tavi had learned which territory they were moving through, he had ordered his most mobile and dangerous units into the field at once.

The Canim warriors were walking through a deathtrap.

This particular valley had remarkably steep walls, and the lattice of tiny streams that ran through it provided enough water to ensure a growth of luxuriant grass—which had not yet flushed into the lush, verdant sea of green it would become within a few more weeks. For now, it was a ten-mile long, one-mile wide box filled with kindling and a thousand of Nasaug's finest.

The First Aleran's Knights Ignus were already in position, with the far more numerous Knights Aeris beside them.   At Tavi's signal, the Knights Ignus would set the valley ablaze while the Knights Aeris used their furies to call forth a gale and send a sudden riptide of fire and fury over the foe.   The Battlecrows stood at the head of the valley, ready to set a backfire and blockade the valley's only means of egress, while Max's cavalry stood ready to sweep down from the other end of the valley and crush any Canim who managed to escape immolation.

Which was why the second legion marching beside the Canim company was a problem.

They were Alerans.

Better than four thousand Alerans in full Legion regalia marched beside the most dangerous historic foes of the realm, under banners that did not correspond to any of the great cities of Alera.   Worse, they were moving in good order.   Two years ago, Tavi would never have understood how difficult such an apparently-simple maneuver actually was.   It took serious discipline to achieve such uniform movement, and was evidence of a disturbing amount of competence on behalf of whoever was training those troops.

"Give me a lens, please," Tavi said quietly.

The big Antillan rose up a little, leaned over Tavi, and held his hands out on either side of Tavi's face, fingers spread. The air between Max's palms blurred, and suddenly the force below them seemed to rush hundreds of yards closer, as Max's furies bent the air, magnifying Tavi's view.

"Those aren't Kalaran banners," Tavi murmured after a moment's study.

Max let out a skeptical grunt. "Maybe Kalare didn't want to be openly associated with them."

"He's already attacked his neighbors without warning, kidnapped several family members of his fellow High Lords, and had dozens and dozens of Citizens murdered by his pet maniacs," Tavi pointed out. "You really think he's worried about covering up his involvement with the Canim at this point?"

"Put that way," Max said.   "No."

Tavi let out a little snort of a breath.   "Take a look at their gear."

Max moved his hands up to hold before his own face.   A moment later, he reported, "It's old.   I mean, everything looks to be in pretty good shape, but the armor is of a design that went out of use years ago.   There are lots of missing pieces too.   Mismatched greaves, nonstandard-length spears, that kind of thing. "   Max grunted.   "Never seen any banners like that, either.   Brown and green?   Who uses brown and green for banners?  They're supposed to be visible.   That's the point of banners."

"Exactly," Tavi said quietly, watching the enemy column's progress.

"They're almost in position," Max said, lowering his hands.   "Once their leading elements hit that old streambed, there's no way they're getting out in time."

"I see them," Tavi said.

Max nodded and said nothing for a minute. Tavi watched the disciplined, but partially equipped legion march steadily in step with the far larger Canim.

"Sir," Max said, "They're in position.   It's time to signal Crassus, sir."

"It doesn't make sense, Max," Tavi said.   "This has got to be a legion of volunteers from within the occupied territory. Why would they be fighting beside an army of invaders?"

"Who knows. Maybe Nasaug is forcing them into it.   Holding their families prisoner or something."

"No," Tavi said.   "Nasaug is too smart for that.   You don't take a man's home and family away, demand that he serve and obey you, and then put a weapon in his hand and give him four thousand friends just as angry and well-armed as he is."

"Sir," Max said, "at this point, the longer we delay the attack, the more the Canim vanguard is going to be able to pressure the Battlecrows at the head of the valley."

"Why?" Tavi demanded to no one in particular.   "Why are they down there?"

Max's voice gained a tense edge.   "Captain, at this point it's academic.   Should I order the attack?"

Tavi stared at the valley below.   Fighting the Canim was one thing. He'd been doing that for a while. He respected them enough to regret the necessity of killing them, though he knew he had little real choice in the matter. It was war.   If Alerans didn't kill the Canim, the Canim would promptly kill Alerans, and it was as simple as that.

Except that the cobbled-together legion below was not made up of Canim.   They were Alerans.   They were people Tavi had sworn to safeguard and protect.

But they were also the enemy. Two years had taught him that no matter how experienced the army or how skilled the commander, the calculus of war had a single, unalterable constant:   Death.

More than four thousand Alerans were about to die, and die horribly, and they shouldn't have been there at all. Tavi could not afford to let such a tempting target as the vulnerable column of Canim regulars get past—even if the only way to get them was to destroy the strange legion with them, whoever they were.

His duty was clear.

Four thousand Alerans.   He was about to murder more than four thousand fellow Alerans.

"Bloody crows," he whispered.

Tavi fought the sudden urge to throw up as he raised his hand and began to flash the signal that would travel down the relay line, ordering his men to begin the attack.

Before he could lift his arm enough to give the signal, Tavi felt an odd, sourceless, faint sensation of shock and surprise. He puzzled over it an instant before he realized that the emotions had not been his own.   He had sensed them, if only dimly, coming from another source nearby, and Tavi whipped his head around in a sudden panic.

The enemy scout wore loose clothing of plain homespun that had been intentionally stained with earth and plant juices. He was a blocky little brick of a man, not tall, but with grotesquely overdeveloped shoulders and a neck that was literally thicker than the base of his skull. Despite his ragged clothing, he wore genuine legionare's boots, and though his leather sword belt shone with age, it bore a genuine gladius at his hip—and there was nothing old or ragged about the short, powerfully curved hunting bow in his hands. He had emerged from the tall grass and scrub on the ridge not ten feet away.

Tavi got his legs underneath him and whipped his knife from his belt, releasing the heavy blade into a throw almost directly from its sheath. There was no time to grip the knife properly, to set himself to throw or to aim. The knife tumbled through the air, and Tavi noted that even if it had hit point-on, instead of landing almost flat against the enemy scout's upper arm, it wouldn't have inflicted anything more than a scratch.

But that hadn't been the point of the throw.   The scout released the arrow strung to his bow in an instinctive snap-shot, but flinched away from the whirling knife, and his arrow flew wide.

Tavi charged after his knife, put his head down, and plowed an armored shoulder into the scout's belly.   The shock of impact jarred his shoulder and neck, and the scout let out a sickly-sounding croak as he fell. Tavi came down on top of the scout, seized the man's homespun tunic in both hands, and slammed his helmeted forehead against the scout's face. Tavi felt the shock of the blow through the steel, and heard the scout's nose break with a squishy crunch.

The scout reacted by lifting one iron-strong hand and clamping it down on Tavi's throat. Tavi felt the fury-assisted strength of the scout's arm, and knew that if he didn't do something, the earthcrafter would snap his neck.

Tavi brought his armored knee up in a savage blow that struck home between the scout's legs, and for a single instant, the power in that deadly arm faltered. Tavi slammed his helmet against the scout's face again and then again, and the man sagged limply back to the ground.

The entire fight had taken all of three or four seconds.

 Tavi fell back from the man, his throat on fire. It was hard to suck air in through his mouth, and for a second he feared that the enemy scout had managed to crush his windpipe, but after a few seconds more he was able to gulp down great breaths of air.

Max had his sword out and had been on the way, but Tavi's reaction had been the swifter, and the big Antillan's face was pale. "Bloody crows," he hissed. "Captain?"

"I'm all right," Tavi choked out.   "Did they see?   Did they hear anything?"

Max rose to a low crouch and looked slowly around, then dropped down again.   "There'd have been some noise by now. "He met Tavi's eyes. "Captain.   You have to signal the attack now."

Tavi stared at the senseless young man lying limp in the grass. He reached up to touch the front rim of his helmet, and his fingers came away wet with blood.

"I know," Max said, his voice low and hard.   "I know you don't like killing.   I know that they're our own people.   I know this is hard and horrible.   But that's what war is, Captain. You've got to order the attack."

"Signal Crassus," Tavi said quietly.

Max let out a low breath of relief and nodded, beginning to rise.

"Do not engage. Fall back to the rally point and meet us there."

Max stared at Tavi, his eyes widening.

Tavi continued, wiping his hands clean of blood on the dry grass. "Get word to the Battlecrows to abandon their position and fall back."

Max remained still for a moment.   "Captain," he said quietly.   "We aren't going to get another opportunity like this one."

Tavi narrowed his eyes as he looked up at his friend.   "We're leaving, Tribune.   You have your orders."

"Yes, sir," Max said at once, and very quietly.   Then he paced off through the grass where he would, Tavi knew, begin flashing hand signals down the line of riders.

Max returned a moment later and watched the enemy forces below begin to march out of the ambush area and out of their reach.   "Bloody crows, Calderon.   Why?"

"Why not burn four thousand of our own people to death?" Tavi asked. He gestured at the downed scout. "Look at him, Max.   What do you see?"

Max stared down at the unconscious man for a moment.   Then he frowned, leaned closer, and tugged aside the man's tunic a bit, before he rose again.  "Muscles are all lopsided, misshaped. He's been chained to a wheel or a plow, for them to develop like that," he said quietly.   "He's got lash scars. "   His right cheek twitched in a tic that Tavi thought Max didn't know he had.   "Curling over his shoulders. More on his belly. Collar scars on his neck, too. He's a slave."

"He was a slave," Tavi replied quietly.   "No collar now. "He nodded down at the army below. "We wanted to know what could make an Aleran fight beside a Cane, Max."

Max grimaced and said, "They're freeing slaves."

Tavi nodded slowly.

"How many?" Max asked.   "How many do you think they have?"

"Can't be too many," Tavi said.   "They don't have a lot of gear, if this man's equipment is any indication. And if they were raising really large numbers, Ehren's spies would have heard something about them.   Which makes sense."

"How?" Max said.

Tavi nodded at the slave legion below.   "Those men know that if they lose, they're dead men, Max. Some slaves have it bad, but a lot of them don't. My guess is that the ones willing to fight are a lot less common than the ones who just want to stay low and quiet until the fighting is over."

"But those are going to fight like the crows are coming for them," Max said, his voice grim.

"Yes," Tavi said quietly.

Max was silent for a minute. Then he said, "All the more reason to order the attack.   I know why you didn't do it.   Great furies know I agree with your principles.   But a lot of men are going to have to die to stop them now. You could have have done that without a loss.   It's going to cost us."

"It won't cost as much as creating a legion of martyrs," Tavi said quietly. "If I'm right, then right now, four thousand slaves have taken up arms.   If we'd wiped them out, Max, if we'd proven to every slave in the occupied territory that Alera didn't give a crow's feather about their lives, Nasaug wouldn't have four thousand fresh troops ready to fight.   He'd have forty thousand terrified, outraged volunteers. Read history, Max.   The Canim have. "Tavi shook his head. "Men fight hardest for their lives—and for their freedom."

Max drew in a slow breath, his rough, appealing features drawn into a pensive frown. "This was a trap," he said quietly. "We were offered those warriors as bait."

"This could have been a trap," Tavi said, nodding. "But Nasaug doesn't plan operations with only one purpose if he can possibly help it.   I think this was something else, too."

"What?" Max said.

"A message. "  Tavi rose, nodding to the downed scout.   "Come on.   We'd better clear out before his friends notice that he's missing and come looking for him. "Tavi leaned down and rolled the limp man onto his side.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure he doesn't choke on his own blood," Tavi said. "Let's move."

They moved at a crouch out to where they'd left the horses, hidden in a thick copse of evergreens. " Tavi?" Max asked.

"Yes?"

"Is that really why you didn't order the attack?  Did you really think it was a trap?"

Tavi regarded his friend steadily.   "You think I felt sympathy for them."

"No," Max said. "I bloody well know you did, Calderon. I know you.   But we're at war.   I'm not sure you can afford that.   I'm not sure the men can afford it."

Tavi paused beside Acteon, one hand on the saddle, one on the reins, and stared at nothing in particular.   "I think," he said quietly, "that I have a duty to Alera, Max. All Alerans. "  He took a deep breath and mounted.   Then he said, his voice distant and very calm, "And yes.   That's why I didn't kill them all."

Max mounted a moment later and rode up beside Tavi as they moved back toward the rally point.   "That works for me. "He glanced back at the ridge behind them and let out a low chortle.

"What?" Tavi asked.

"Your singulare has been walking around in your shadow for almost two years now. The first day he's not here, and you charge out into the field and get yourself half-choked to death. He's going to be furious.   So's Kitai."

Tavi let out a rough-sounding chuckle.   It grated painfully in his throat.   "Don't worry, Max.   I'll deal with them."

Max's smile faded. "Senator Arnos was hoping to put a big new feather in his cap for this conference with the First Lord. He and the War Committee are not going to be happy about you letting those regulars get away."

Tavi felt his eyes narrow as his smile turned into a simple baring of his teeth.   "Don't worry, Max," he said.   "I'll deal with them, too."

Chapter Two

"First Spear!" bellowed a legionare's voice.

Valiar Marcus had spent more years in the legions than many of the volunteers in the First Aleran had been drawing breath. Though he'd had the third watch, and been asleep for less than an hour, his feet swung off his cot and hit the cheap rug that he'd thrown over the bottom of his small, but private tent. He already had his tunic and boots on by the time the legionare reached his tent.

"Centurion," panted Vilius, a young legionare in the cohort's third century.   "We've got reports of movement on the road to the east.   A large force."

"Bloody crows," Marcus swore. "The relief column. "   He struggled to draw conclusions, but his sleep-fogged mind wasn't cooperating. He shook his head with a growl and forced it to do its duty.   "Captain will have the cavalry, the Knights, and the Battlecrows on the road.   He'll try to hold the Canim off long enough to get the column into the city's walls. "   Fidelias turned to his armor and strapped into it, fastening the row of ties down its center front with fingers that flew with the effortless speed of long practice.   "Prime Cohort will form up on the earthworks on the far side of the refugee camp.   Tell Tribunes Martinus and Kellus that I recommend that they form up the Seventh and Ninth on First Cohort's flanks. We march in five minutes."

Vilius slammed his fist against the armor over his heart, and dashed from the tent.

Once he was gone, Marcus grimaced and rubbed savagely at the clenching cramp that had formed on one side of his neck. He must have pulled a muscle, sitting up that fast out of a dead sleep, but crows take him if he was letting any of those young men see it.

Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of thing.

Five minutes later, the Prime Cohort, double the size of any other cohort at eight centuries strong, moved out of the heavily fortified gates of the town on the northern side of the Tiber. They went out at a run, boots striking hard in unison on the paving stones, then becoming a muffled thunder as the column wheeled out over softer earth. Marcus led the column beneath the wan, cloud-obscured morning sun, running beside the first rank and calling the pace. They passed through the tent and shanty-filled warren that stretched for half a mile in every direction around the town of Elinarch.

The earthworks at the far side of the refugee camp were not the simple packed-earth walls that the legions had used for time out of mind.   Instead, they had been built from clay taken from the bed and banks of the Tiber, then baked into a substance harder than most stone via the use of firecrafting.   Those walls were fifteen feet high and twenty thick, and if they didn't have the sheer, obdurate strength of furycrafted battlement stone, they were far more serviceable than standard earthworks or a wooden palisade.

Marcus led the cohort up onto the walls over the wide-mouthed gate, where the men took up positions with practiced speed. He bellowed at the few who performed with slight imperfections, and had the entire Prime Cohort in position and standing ready before the legionares of the Seventh and Ninth cleared the city walls and came pounding toward them.

Half an hour passed in nervous silence while, behind them, refugees began a slow, confused retreat into the safety of the city's walls.   Overhead, several Knights Aeris went flashing by, driven by torrents of wind, flying to and from the east.   Marcus felt the familiar singing tension of fear that always came with preparation for a battle.   Defending the city from an attack from this particular flank had been a worst case scenario, and no one had thought it would actually come to that—but if the Canim had crossed the river, then he and the other men here, at the forward defenses, were about to have a very bad morning.   Worse, every one of them knew it.  

So Marcus spent his time pacing steadily up and down the wall, berating troops for an improperly fastened sword-belt here, a small patch of rust on a breastplate there. His growled imprecations were creative, gratuitously foul-mouthed—and familiar.   They were all the reassurance he could offer his men. They were all he could offer himself, as well.

Tribune Tactica Kellus, who had himself been a centurion when he first signed on with the First Aleran, paced briskly down the wall from the Ninth's position, and nodded to Marcus. "Centurion."

Though as the First Spear, Marcus exercised command of the Prime Cohort, made up of its finest legionares, Kellus still outranked him. Marcus saluted, and nodded his head. "Sir."

"Have you any idea what's going on?"

He shrugged. "Reports of an unknown force east of here."

Kellus grimaced.   "I know that."

"Then your guess is as good as mine."

"Another drill, you think?"

Marcus pursed his lips. "No.   I don’t think so, sir.   I know the Captain's mad for them, but this doesn't feel right."

Kellus grunted.   "Can't be the Canim, can it?   They've never been able to cross the Tiber in numbers."

"Maybe they worked it out," Marcus said.   "Either way—"

"On the wall!" came a call from below.

Marcus turned to find a dapper, aging little man in the livery of a legion valet standing below. "Good morning, Magnus."

"Permission to come up and speak to you?" called the valet.

"Granted. "  Marcus beckoned the valet, who hurried up the stairs and arrived on the battlements, laboring to catch his breath.

"Centurion, Tribune," Magnus panted, nodding.   "We just got a messenger in from the Captain.   He wanted me to tell your men to stand down."

Marcus lifted his eyebrows.

"It was a drill, then," Kellus said.

Marcus frowned and turned to stare intently at the road to the east.   "No," he said quietly.   "I don't think it was."

For a moment, there was nothing but the haze of a morning that had not yet become warm enough to burn off all the mist.   Then, ranks of marching soldiers appeared in the east.   Two long, broad columns of them, in fact, came marching along on either side of the road, leaving room for the relief column's wagons and draft animals in the center.   Marcus frowned, and began counting, before he realized what he was actually looking at.

"Two legions?" he murmured.

"Yes," Magnus said quietly.

"And flying the blue and red," Marcus noted.   "Like us."

The senior valet squinted out at the approaching troops.   "Ah, I thought as much.   These are the Senate's new toys.   The Senatorial Guard."

Marcus grunted. "Arnos' pet project, right?"

"The Senator is used to getting what he wants," the valet replied.   "And with the war stretching on, his arguments have gained much more support in the Committee, the Senate and among the Citizenry."

"And now the Senate has its own legions, too."

The old valet nodded. "Ambitious, that Arnos, commanding two-thirds the fighting power of a High Lord.   He controls them completely."

Marcus blew out a breath. "So the good news is that the Canim haven't crossed the river. "He said the next sentence a bit louder, knowing word would spread rapidly up and down the wall. "No fighting today."

"And the bad news," the valet said in a quiet tone, "is that—"

"The War Committee has come to Elinarch to play," Marcus said, his tone souring.

"Great furies help us. Yes."

"Thank you, Magnus," the First Spear said.   "Looks like this has turned into your kind of fight."

The legion's senior valet sighed.   "Yes. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll toddle off and try to figure out where we're going to put everyone. "   He nodded to them and departed again.

Kellus came to stand next to Marcus, scowling at the incoming legions. "We don't need their help here," he said.   "We've held it ourselves for two years."

"We've bled for two years, too," Marcus said quietly.   "I won't mind letting someone else do that part for a little while, sir."

Kellus snorted and departed to return to his own men, where Marcus thought he should have bloody well been standing to begin with.   The young Tribune was right about one thing, though. Arnos' presence here—and in command of two full Legions, no less—was anything but a good sign.

Marcus knew who truly owned Arnos' allegiance.

An hour later, Valiar Marcus and his men returned to their quarters in the city, and Marcus returned to his own tent, aching for sleep. He drew the tent's heavy flaps closed, tied them there, and then began to unfasten his armor.

"May I help you, my Lady?" he asked quietly, as he did.

There was a quiet, pleased sound from the direction of his camp stool, simple canvas on a wooden frame. The air shimmered for a moment, and a woman appeared there, seated primly, dressed in a rather plain russet gown. The gown did not suit her features, any more than an old rope halter suited a finely bred horse.   She was lovely in a way that few women could match and none could surpass, dark of hair and fair of skin, seemingly in the flower of her late youth.

Marcus knew better. Invidia Aquitaine was neither young, nor particularly flowery.   There was nothing delicate or fragile about her. In fact, he reflected, she was one of the more dangerous people he'd ever known.

"I'm not wearing my perfume," she said in a velvet-smooth alto.   "I was careful to move nothing in the tent. I'm quite sure you didn't see me through my veil, and I made no sound.   How did you know I was here?"

Marcus finished unlacing the armor and shrugged out of it.   The surge of relief in his shoulders and neck at the sudden absence of its weight was heavenly.   Then he glanced at her and said, "Oh. It's you."

Lady Aquitaine gave him a very direct look for several long seconds before her lips parted and a low chuckle bubbled from them. "I have missed you, Fidelias.   Very few people have nerve enough to offer me insouciance, these days."

"Doesn't Arnos?" he asked her. "The way I hear it, he never shuts his crowbegotten mouth."

"Arnos offers me a number of assets," Lady Aquitaine replied.   "Sparkling wit and clever conversation are not among them. Though I will grant that he is skilled enough in . . . other social pursuits. "   Her mouth curled into a merrily wicked little smirk—just a schoolgirl, out to amuse herself, all in good fun.  

Fidelias didn't believe it for a moment, of course.   "My Lady, I don't wish to seem rude—"

"But you had late watch last night, and have not slept, I know," she said, her tone turning businesslike. "I, of course, have other concerns as well. "  She studied him for a moment, and then said, "That face you're wearing. It really doesn't suit you, you know. All the scars.   The lumpy nose.   It's the face of a mindless thug."

Marcus— Fidelias—sat down on the edge of his cot and began unlacing his boots. "I earned this face, as Marcus."

"So I've been told," she replied.   "Valiar Marcus is quite the hero of the realm. "Her eyes remained very steady. "I have wondered, from time to time, if you have forgotten that Fidelias is most decidedly not."

Fidelias froze for just a beat, and sudden trepidation made his heartbeat race. He cursed himself for the slip. He'd been soldiering so much, the past two years, that he'd lost some of his edge for intrigue. Lady Aquitaine would have read his reaction as quickly and easily as she might have looked at a playing card. He forced himself to bottle up his emotions as he finished removing his boots.   "I know who I am, and what I'm doing," he said quietly.

"I find it odd," she said, "that you have not reported anything to me about this young captain, Rufus Scipio."

Fidelias grunted.   "I've reported to you. Young commander, natural talent.   He led the Legion through something that should have killed them to a man, and they wouldn't hear of having him replaced with a more experienced commander, after.   He's fought a campaign against the Canim that should go into the history books."

Lady Aquitaine lifted an eyebrow. "He's held on to a single city while taking back less than fifty miles of territory from the invaders. That hardly sounds impressive."

"Because you don't know who and what he's done it against," Fidelias said.

"The War Committee does not seem impressed with it."

"The War Committee hasn't stood to battle against an army of fifty thousand Canim with nothing but a half-trained legion with an under-strength corps of Knights to support it."

Lady Aquitaine bared her teeth in a sudden, brilliant smile.   "So military.   That suits you, I think. "   Her eyes roamed over him.   "And the exercise has agreed with you, it would seem."

Fidelias kept himself from reacting at all, either to her words, to the sudden low fires in her eyes, or to the subtle wave of earthcrafting that swept out from her, sending a quiet, insistent tug of desire flickering through his body.   "My Lady, please.   Your point?"

"My point," she said quietly, every word growing sharper, "is that rumor is running rampant that this young Scipio commands legions as if born to it. Rumor has it that he has shown evidence of subtle and potent furycrafting, to such a degree that he withstood attacks that all but annihilated the officers of an entire legion. Rumor has it that he bears a startling resemblance to Gaius Septimus in his youth."

Fidelias rolled one shoulder as his neck cramped again. "Young men in legion armor, in legion haircuts, all look pretty much the same, my Lady.   He's tall, yes.   So are a lot of young men.   He's a natural talent at command.   But he's got less furycraft than I do. He barely passed his basic crafting requirements for his first term in the legions.   You can look them up, in Riva's records."

Lady Aquitaine folded her hands and frowned at him.   "I'll have to take a look at him myself, Fidelias.   But frankly, he's too well positioned to ignore. He commands the loyalty of an entire legion, after all—and a legion that contains not one, but two sons of Antillus Raucous, both of whom possess their father's talents.   And he's operated in complete loyalty to Gaius. I'm not prepared to entertain the notion of a bastard of the House of Gaius running loose with that kind of power to support him. Not now. "   She smiled, and it was a cold, cold thing. "We're almost there.   Gaius will fall. I will not have some upstart playing havoc with my plans now."

Fidelias took a slow breath, keeping himself carefully under control. If Lady Aquitaine sensed the sudden turmoil of his emotions now, he was as good as dead.   "A reasonable precaution," he said. "What would you have me do?"

"Remain where you are for now," she said, rising.   She flicked a hand, idly, and the features of her face melted, changed, and rearranged themselves into a far plainer set of features that looked nothing like her. Her hair changed colors and took on streaks of grey, and her body slumped slightly, as though aging several years within a few seconds.   She lifted a bundle of clothing she'd held in her lap, and looked precisely like any of a hundred washerwomen that worked for the legion—but for the hard shine in her eyes. "And soon," she said, "when the time is right, my dear spy, I'll send you the word."

"To what?" Fidelias asked quietly.

She paused at the tent's flap and looked at him over her shoulder.   "Why, to kill him, of course."

Then she was gone, vanishing into the rising bustle of the camp outside his tent.

Fidelias—Marcus—shut the tent again, and saw that his hands were shaking. He returned to his cot and lay down upon it.

Kill the Captain.

If he did not, he wouldn't survive it. Though they eagerly cultivated betrayal in others' retainers, the Aquitaines did not tolerate it among their own. Fidelias knew. He'd killed half a dozen of them himself, at Lady Aquitaine's bidding. He'd turned against Gaius Sextus, his liege.   He'd betrayed his fellow Cursors.   He'd turned upon his own student, and he knew Amara would never forgive him.   He'd done it all at her command, because he had believed that she and her husband were the least destructive choice for Alera's future.

That was before he'd met the Captain, before the young man had, somehow, hauled survival and victory out of the ashes of chaos and despair—and personally risked his life to save Marcus' own along the way.

Now, Invidia Aquitaine commanded him once more.

Kill the Captain.

Marcus ached to his bones with fatigue, but he lay staring up at the sloping canvas walls of his tent, utterly unable to sleep.

Chapter Three

"Captain," Valiar Marcus said.   "They're ready for you."

Tavi rose, and straightened the hem of his rich crimson tunic, beneath the armor, and made sure that his formal half-cape draped properly. He'd never actually had occasion to wear his dress uniform before, and after two years of regular use, his battered armor looked rather shabby when framed by the splendid crimson fabric.

"Sword, sir," Marcus said. The old centurion's weathered face was sober, but Tavi thought he saw amusement in his eyes.

Tavi glanced down and sighed.   Regulations called for a sword to hang straight along the seam of the trousers, but he'd taken his cue from Marcus and several other veterans, and belted his scabbard on at a slight angle.   The change made a small difference in the ease of drawing a blade, and a smart soldier sought every advantage he could.   Regulations, however, were regulations, and Tavi took a moment to re-secure the weapon properly.   Then he nodded to the First Spear, and strode into the conference room.

The conference room had been built in the heavy stone command building back when the First Aleran had repulsed the initial Canim onslaught. The room, with its large stone sand table, and its classroom-style slate boards on the walls, had been intended to host the command staff of a pair of legions—twice what had ever actually put the room to use.   Now, though, the place was stuffy and close, and crowded with two score of the most powerful men and women in Alera.

Tavi recognized only a few of them by sight, though he could deduce most of the others from their colors and reputations.   Gaius, of course, sat at the front of the room, on a small platform raised a few inches over the floor. He was flanked by a pair of Crown Guardsmen, and Sir Cyril, as the nominal host of the proceedings, sat beside him, his metalcrafted replacement leg gleaming in the light of the furylamps.

Around the room were several other notables of the realm:   High Lord and High Lady Placida were front and center on the first row, seated beside the elderly High Lord Cereus.   Sir Miles, captain of the Crown Legion, sat beside him, though Tavi had no idea why Miles' mouth was hanging open like that. After all, surely someone had told Miles about Tavi's role as Rufus Scipio. Toward the back of the room, leaning indolently against the wall, like a bored schoolboy, was a man that could only be High Lord Aquitaine.   Several men whose body language declared them cronies of Aquitaine stood nearby him. On the other side of the room from Aquitaine was Countess Amara, standing in precisely the same posture, probably as a subtle mockery of the second most powerful man in the realm—and certainly in a position where she would be able to watch everything the High Lord and his associates were doing.   Senator Arnos, head of the War Committee, and a dozen aides and associates occupied the entire second row, and Tavi could feel the man's cold, calculating eyes lock onto him as he entered.

"Ah," Gaius said, his deep, mellow voice filling the room when he spoke. "Welcome, Captain Scipio. Thank you for coming."

Tavi bowed deeply to the First Lord.   "Of course, sire.   How may I serve?"

"We've been briefing everyone on the recent developments in the course of the rebellion," Gaius replied.   "Sir Cyril assures me that you are the best man to give us a concise recounting of events here. "   Gaius gestured at the front of the room. "If you please."

Tavi bowed his head again and strode to the front of the room. He bowed to the assembled nobles and legion captains, took a deep breath, ordered his thoughts, and began.   "As you all know, the First Aleran has been holding the Tiber against the Canim incursion since it originally landed on the Night of the Red Stars, two years ago.

"Since that time we have fought a number of sizeable engagements against the Canim, and have seen many smaller actions.   It has not been easy—"

"It can't have been too difficult," Senator Arnos said. The Senator was a small man, his fashionably long hair slicked back and held in a tail. "After all, a novice commander held off an invasion force that outnumbered his own half-trained legion ten to one or better—assuming your force estimates are accurate."

Tavi felt a flash of worry and anxiety at the hard, annoyed tone in the Senator's voice—and felt it quickly transform into a surge of anger at what his words were implying. Tavi reminded himself that if anyone intended to discredit him, baiting him into an emotional reaction would be an idea way to go about it, and he reined in his emotions.   "A number of factors played to our favor," Tavi responded, his voice calm and even.   "Most important of which was a schism in the Canim leadership, between the leader of the warrior caste, Nasaug, and the leader of the ritualist caste, Sarg. We were able to play them off one another and foil their initial attack.   Their numbers are not in question, Senator. They have been verified from multiple sources in the time since."

"Yes, yes," Arnos said impatiently.   "The question I'm sure everyone's eager to have answered, Captain, is why you haven't swept the dogs into the crowbegotten sea by now. Numbers advantage or not, your Knights trump anything the Canim have."

Tavi just looked a the man for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Centurion."

Marcus entered, carrying a T-shaped metal contraption the size of a cart-horse's yolk. He took up position beside Tavi, and held the object up for everyone to see.

"This," Tavi said, "is a Canim weapon. It's an innovation on a standard bow, and we call it a balest.   It's capable of throwing a solid steel projectile nearly two thirds of a mile, if the wind is favorable, and it hits with enough force to punch cleanly through a breastplate, the man beneath, and out the other side."

Arnos rolled his eyes and made a faint sound of derision.

"I've had more Knights killed by this weapon, Senator, than any other in the Canim arsenal," Tavi said. "They're used by highly trained specialists, and almost always at night.   If our Knights Aeris try to approach, every crowd of Canim seems to have one of their marksmen hidden in it, and they go out of their way to protect them. This weapon is the only one we've managed to capture over the course of two years—and the Cane who used it managed to escape."

"Captain," drawled High Lord Placidus in his easy, mellow voice, "could you give us an idea of just how effective these marksmen of theirs are?"

"They don't have the precision of a skilled Knight Flora, your Grace," Tavi replied.   "But they're very close. And the raw power of these weapons more than compensates.   Given that they apparently have orders to wait for Knights to make their appearance before firing, they have proved to be an effective tactical countermeasure."

"Even assuming this . . . toy . . . gave a Cane the same combat effectiveness as a Knight Flora," Arnos said, and his tone suggested that he clearly did not believe that it might, "you need only take similar tactical measures to prevent them from employing it effectively."

"Except that Nasaug has a great many Canim he can train to use a balest," Tavi said.   "We have a sharply limited number of Knights, and we cannot afford to lose or replace them. " Tavi turned to the rest of the room.   "This weapon hasn't determined the course of the conflict on its own, of course.   I simply use it to illustrate that the Canim have proven to be a more devious, resourceful, capable, and well-equipped foe than we had previously believed."

Arnos made a disgusted sound. "Are we to believe that in centuries of conflict against these animals, we have simply been too blind to see what was in front of our eyes?"

Tavi shook his head.   "The Canim Alera fought previously were never this well organized, or this numerous.   Furthermore, prior to this incursion we had never seen the appearance of their warrior caste in numbers."

"I just don't understand this situation at all," High Lord Cereus said.   He passed a long-fingered, liver-spotted, but steady hand back over his balding scalp.   "The behavior of these creatures just isn't at all what I would have expected. My own nobles and soldiers report to me that these Canim have been allowing Alerans simply to leave the occupied territory, unmolested, provided they go peaceably."

"Clearly an indicator of their lack of control of the situation," Senator Arnos said, rising, "as well as a telling point in regards to their strategic ineptitude. No real commander would allow such a potentially valuable resource to be lost at all, much less allow it to be given to the enemy. "He turned to the room. "In fact, the ineptitude of command in this entire region has—"

"Excuse me, Senator," Tavi said, keeping his tone polite. "I'm happy to field whatever questions you or the other Citizens may have. "   He faced Arnos without smiling.   "But I believe protocol dictates that I have the floor."

Arnos turned to face Tavi, color flushing his cheeks.

"Quite right, Captain," Gaius murmured from his seat. Though his phrasing remained polite, his voice calm, there were hard inflections on his words that left no doubt as to the First Lord's lack of amusement.   "Senator, I ask your patience in this matter.   Everyone will have an opportunity to be heard, I assure you. Captain, please continue with your thoughts on the Canim war leader's unexpected generosity in releasing Alerans from the occupied territory."

Tavi bowed his head.   "Nothing generous about it, Sire.   It's genius."

Gaius nodded, his eyes on Arnos. "Explain."

"It gives him nothing but advantage," Tavi replied. "The largest problem facing the entire region of the rebellion has been the supply of food.   The fighting has resulted in many fields being destroyed, others damaged, and it has degraded the ability of the entire region to bring in a steady harvest. Add more than a hundred thousand hungry Canim to the equation, and as a result, everyone's forces have been trying to secure all the food they can."

Lady Placidus raised her hand.   "Excuse me, Captain. A hundred thousand?I had understood that our estimates placed the number at somewhere near half that."

"A hundred thousand is a conservative estimate, your Grace," Tavi said, bowing his head politely to the High Lady.   "The Canim who came here did not come as simply an invading military.   They brought their dependents with them.   Females and young.   I say one hundred thousand, but I don't know the real number. No one does.   They're going to great lengths to protect them."

A low mutter went through the room.

Tavi cleared his throat, and raised the volume of his voice slightly. "By releasing Alerans in the occupied territory, Nasaug solves several of his own problems and hands us several new ones.   The local Alerans are most familiar with local furies, and will have the most ability to take action against his troops. By getting rid of them, he simultaneously robs any resistance within the territory of most of its strength, conserves his food supply by reducing the number of hungry mouths that would consume it, and burdens us with the refugees. Now, we are forced to find some way to feed them, as well as to keep our limited number of forces deployed in such a fashion as to shield them from potential enemy aggression, hampering our ability to operate aggressively against them.

"It's a smart move. It's typical of his thinking. And it's working.   We haven't had any deaths from starvation, yet—but lack of sufficient food was probably responsible for a number of fatal illnesses last winter. The relief column organized by Steadholder Isana of Calderon might—might—hold us through until harvest, but the refugee camp here is only one of a dozen, spread around the outskirts of Cane-occupied territory."

There was a moment of pensive, even worried, silence.

"Captain," Gaius asked, his rich, calm voice bringing the fearful pause to an end. "I assume you have attempted to apply standard legion doctrine in your battles against the Canim."

"Yes, sir," Tavi said.

"And how would you characterize its effectiveness?"

"It has been of limited value, sire."

Gaius glanced around the room.   "Why?"

"The Canim don't play by the rules, sire," Tavi said.

On the front row, Captain Miles had apparently recovered enough to snort out a rough breath of a laugh.

The creases at the corners of Gaius' mouth deepened slightly. "Explain."

"They don't rely on furycrafting, sire," Tavi clarified.   "They can't use it, and have no need for it.   As a result, they don't think in the same terms, strategically. For example, they have no particular need for the use of causeways, the way an Aleran legion does, if it wants to move rapidly.   They avoid causeways whenever they can, forcing the legion to march overland, which gives them a significant advantage in the field. They march faster than we do.

"We've compensated for this to some degree, by introducing training for overland marches, the addition of auxiliary units of cavalry—"

Aquitaine murmured something at the back of the room.   Tavi only caught the phrase "naked barbarians" but the men standing with him let out low, growling laughs.

"—as well," Tavi continued steadily, "as the addition of a cohort of mounted infantry."

"Mounted infantry?" asked High Lord Cereus.

"They ride to the fight, then dismount, your Grace," Tavi clarified. "It lets us field a solid block of legionares to support our cavalry and our Knights, and provides us with greater tactical flexibility in the field."

Arnos let out a derisive snort. "This is all beside the point, Gaius, and we all know it.   Captain Rufus Scipio's tactics and Sir Cyril's strategies have, I admit, managed to hold on to the region and contain the Canim threat.   It's quite possible that, given how badly outnumbered they have been, they were even appropriate to the task at hand.   But that situation is now at an end."

The Senator rose and addressed the room at large.   "I have two outsized legions of the Senatorial Guard, fresh and made up purely of veteran legionares, now camped outside. Between them and the remnants of the First Aleran, we will sweep the beasts back into the sea and end this humiliating charade. "   He turned to Lord Aquitaine, specifically. "I anticipate that we will bring the war in this theater to a conclusion by midsummer, at which point we can increase the pressure on Kalare's remaining forces and restore order to the realm."

Tavi stared at Arnos blankly for a moment.   Was the man insane?True, the two legions of the Senatorial Guard contained nearly ten thousand men each—but unless the mathematics instructors at the Academy had done Tavi a grave disservice, it still meant that the Canim's forces outnumbered the Alerans by well more than two to one. Those were not impossible odds by any stretch of the imagination, but they were daunting—and they did not take into account any former-slave forces the Canim might have raised.

"Such an undertaking would be . . . premature, Senator," Tavi said. "Until we have learned more about the additional forces being raised by the Canim."

That drew every eye in the room.

"What?" Sir Miles sputtered.

"The Canim have armed at least one legion of former slaves," Tavi said.   "We presume that they're offering freedom in exchange for—"

"Does this matter?" Arnos demanded, scorn open now, in his tone.

"They're our fellow Alerans," Tavi spat. "Many of the people who stayed probably did so because they had nowhere else to—"

"Immaterial," Arnos said, arching an eyebrow. "As you yourself have pointed out, every loyal Aleran has already left the occupied territory."

"That isn't what I said—" Tavi began.

Arnos's well-cultured baritone overrode him effortlessly. "Those who remain behind—whether they are taking up arms against the realm or simply supporting the Canim for their own personal profit—are traitors. "   His smile was sharp and hard.   "They deserve nothing but a traitor's death."

A number of men raised their voices at that point.   Tavi began to join them, but there was a sudden presence at his side, and Tavi turned to find the First Lord standing beside him.

"Be silent," Gaius said quietly.

"But sire," Tavi began.

"Be silent," the First Lord hissed. His eyes turned to Tavi and gave him a single, hard look, so full of authority that the young Cursor never so much as considered doing or saying anything else.

"Yes, sire."

Gaius nodded once, as the impatiently raised voices grew louder. "I need you exactly where you are—in command of the First Aleran.   Don't give him an excuse to remove you."

Tavi blinked and could only stare blankly at Gaius.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you here, lad," the First Lord continued. "My support doesn't mean what it once did, I'm afraid. Today, I'm little more than the chair of a meeting."

"I didn't even get to tell them about what Ehren's contacts have learned or the theories we've drawn from it."

Gaius' lips compressed for a moment.   "He doesn't want to hear it.   Arnos and his friends have plans for what happens next in the region, and their plans do not necessarily leave room for such minor inconveniences as fact."

Tavi ground his teeth.   "He's a fool."

"He's a fool with the backing of the Senate," Gaius corrected him. "And he is the lawful commander of the Guard—and the First Aleran, I might add. He'll be assuming command in the region, with Sir Cyril as his senior advisor."

Tavi took a deep breath.   "What would you have me do?"

"Your best," the First Lord said.   "Work with Sir Cyril.   Mitigate the Senator's idiocy.   Save as many lives as you can."

"If Arnos does what he says, Nasaug is going to hurt us, Sire. Badly."

"Three months," Gaius said.   "Keep things together here for three months."

"What?" Tavi asked quietly, confused.   "Why three months?"

"Because by then, the war with Kalarus will be finished, his rebellion over, and we'll have regular legion commanders to spare.   Once the Senate's 'state of emergency' is over, Arnos can go back to pushing soldiers around a sand table where he belongs."

Tavi blinked at him.   "How is that going to happen, sire?"

The First Lord arched a graying eyebrow at him.   Tavi noted, for the first time, that their eyes were now on a level with one another.  

Gaius' eyes glittered with dark humor for an instant.   "That would be telling. "   He cast a glance at the tumult Arnos' comments had raised. "The task I'm handing you is unenviable. Can you do it?"

Tavi looked up at the discord swirling around the Senator, and narrowed his eyes. He knew all too well the kind of price the legionares were forced to pay when their leaders made even relatively small and honest mistakes.   What Arnos was proposing was barely this side of insanity, and the suffering that his actions could inflict on noncombatants in the occupied territory was a thing out of the young captain's nightmares.

Something had to be done.

"Yes, sire," Tavi said quietly.   "I can."

Chapter Four

"Well," Amara murmured to the First Lord as they departed the command building. "That could have gone better."

"Actually," Gaius said, "it went as well as could be expected. "He strode purposefully toward the area of the square typically used by Knights Aeris for landings and takeoffs. That area of the camp was kept policed of detritus and debris, so that the gales caused by fliers' wind streams sent a minimum number of objects flying around.

Amara had to hurry her own steps to keep up with the much taller First Lord. "I thought the young Captain held his own rather well."

"Rather too well," Gaius said testily. "Great furies know, Arnos needs someone to bleed his ego to manageable levels, but Scipio isn't the one to do it. I need him right where he is."

Amara shook her head.   "I spent some time in the town last night, doing a little listening in the wine houses."

" Amara," Gaius chided her. "You're serving as my liason now, not as an intelligence agent."

"Habit, sire," Amara said.   "His men think new grass sprouts up in his bootprints and flowers bloom where he spits.   They'd never stand for his removal."

Gaius made a thoughtful sound.   "Really?   He's that highly regarded?"

"I watched three brawls last night between legionares from the Senatorial Guard and those of the First Aleran.   Every one was started by commentary about Scipio."

"How'd his men do?"

"They won three times. " Amara shook her head.   "They're a tough group, sire."

"After two years out here alone, they'd have to be," Gaius murmured. "I wanted to send them more help, but the pressures elsewhere were just too great.   Especially with the increased pressure on the Shieldwall."

Amara glanced around them, making sure no one was immediately nearby. "And it kept Scipio isolated from the rest of the realm."

Gaius gave her a sharp look.

Amara shrugged.   "There are rumors, sire."

"Rumors," Gaius said.

"About Scipio.   About who his father might have been. "Amara drew in a deep breath. "The rumors say that he bears a remarkable likeness to Princeps Septimus, sire. And they say that a man named Araris—a man who might be Araris Valerian himself—is his personal singulare."

"Rumors, Countess," Gaius said.

"I thought so, too," she said.   "Until I saw Captain Miles' face, when T— when Scipio walked in. "She looked up at the First Lord. "It was like he'd seen a ghost."

Gaius' voice hardened slightly.   "Rumors, Countess."

"Rumors you wanted to strengthen," she said quietly.   "That's why you held the meeting here, instead of summoning everyone back to the capital.   Out here, where he's surrounded by his men, confident, obviously in command—and where none of them would be in a position of authority over him, and where you could oversee the situation.   You're priming them to accept him as something more."

The First Lord glanced down at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, though his voice remained stern. "I already know you're clever, Countess.   You don't have to prove it to me.   It's considered good form to let such things go unsaid."

Amara kept herself from smiling, and gave him a grave bow of her head. "Of course, Sire.   I'll keep that in mind."

Gaius glanced back over his shoulder, toward the command building. "They really think that much of him?"

"They love him," she said.

Gaius stepped out onto the swept-clean stones of the flight area. "It was like that with Septimus, you know," he said quietly.

Amara tilted her head to one side, listening in silence.

"He had that quality about him. People loved him. He gave them . . . "Gaius shook his head. "Something.   Something that made them feel that they could do more than they ever had before.   That lifted them up.   Made them greater.   He gave them . . ."

"Hope," Amara suggested.

"Yes," Gaius said quietly, and his voice turned puzzled. "It wasn't any kind of furycraft. It was him.   I never understood how he did it. "  The First Lord shrugged. "He must have gotten it from his mother."

"Sire . . . " Amara began.

Gaius lifted a hand in a weary gesture.   "I am not like Septimus.   Or Scipio.   I still command respect in some.   In most, though, all I inspire is fear. "His eyes were unfocused, his voice thoughtful. "I am not a good person, Amara.   I have had reasonable success as a First Lord, but . . . I don't have their compassion. Only resolve."

Amara only stared at the First Lord, in silence.   He rarely spoke of himself in a personal sense. It was at moments like this that Amara felt the real difference in their ages—for though Gaius looked like a man in his mid-forties, perhaps graced with early silver hair, he was in truth approaching eighty years of age.   He had seen a lifetime of intrigue and betrayal, and no small share of personal tragedy of his own.   She had grown used to the image he projected—that of a man of fantastic power, inhuman will, and effortless personal and political grace.

It was in moments like these that she was reminded of what he truly was—a weary and almost viciously lonely old man.

Amara had made mistakes enough in her young life to give her a small but steady burden of regrets.   Gaius' decisions affected many more people than her own. How many regrets did the old man have piled upon his aching shoulders?  How much darker were the dreams that came to haunt him?   How many times, over decades in the treacherous world of Aleran politics, had he longed for someone to turn to, to talk to, to lean upon—knowing that there was no one, and never would be. Not after the death of his wife and son, the last of the ancient bloodlines of the House of Gaius. Everyone looked at the First Lord and saw exactly what he wished them to see:   the leader of the realm, the power, and the riches.

Only in the last year of working with him had Amara realized how unutterably alone Gaius truly was.  

It took extraordinary courage to lead the life he had lived, to endure in the face of all the problems, the enemies, the demands placed upon him.   Even if she had the furycraft to do it, Amara would not be the First Lord for all the riches of Alera.

She drew herself up, faced him squarely, and said, "I serve you, sire."

Gaius regarded her intently for a moment, and then briefly put a hand on her shoulder.   "Countess," he said.   "It is entirely possible that I am not worthy of such loyalty.   Summon the coach."

"Yes, sire. "Amara raised one arm and flashed a hand signal at a group of Knights Aeris of the Crown Guard waiting on a nearby wall.   The men secured harnesses to an aerial coach, and lifted into the air, descending to the landing ground with the First Lord's coach, along with an escort of a score of Knights Aeris in the Crown's scarlet and blue. Gaius traded some words with the commander of the Knights, then entered the coach.   Amara came in after him.

Wind roared, and the coach rose up and away from the fortified town.   Amara took a moment to regard the Elinarch, rising in a graceful arch over the grey-green waters of the slow, deep, steady Tiber.   At one point in her life, Amara thought, she would have resisted anything but a direct command to ride in an air coach. After all, why ride when one could be reveling in the power and freedom of flight?

Granted, that was before the First Lord had her flying over the entire width and breadth of the realm for most of two years straight.   After being worn to exhaustion, over and over again, Amara had come to the conclusion that perhaps a little bit of decadent relaxation while someone else did they heavy lifting might not be a bad thing.   She had no intention of making a habit of it, but she'd worked hard enough to earn the occasional respite.

Especially given how long it had been since she'd seen Bernard.

Amara sighed. Bernard, her secret husband.   Cursors were supposed to devote themselves solely to their duties.   Cursors served the First Lord and the Realm, and their devotion was expected to be selfless and undivided—though, like active legionares, who were also supposed to remain unwed, Cursors generally took lovers.   The only thing truly forbidden was marriage.

Of course, that was precisely what she had done.

Amara should never have allowed herself to fall in love with the formidable Count of Calderon.   Regardless of how steady and caring he was, how strong, how handsome, how patient and loving, how passionate and skilled and—

Amara's heart sped up, and she arrested her train of thought before she began to blush.

If love was so easily overruled by banal reason, it would not be love.

"Thinking of the good Count Calderon, Amara?" Gaius asked her. His eyes glittered with amusement.

"You don't know it was him," Amara replied.   "Perhaps I've taken a dozen new lovers by now."

The First Lord's mouth quivered. Then he erupted into a rich, genuine bellow of laughter.   It didn't last before he subsided, belly shaking, to stare out the window of the coach.   "No," he said. "No, not you."

Amara took a moment to compose herself.   She often forgot that Gaius was as skilled at watercrafting as he was with fire or earth or metal. Worse, he was a perceptive individual who had been dealing with people two or three times as long as Amara had been drawing breath—all of which meant that it would be all too easy for him to discern awkward, potentially dangerous specifics. Her relationship with Bernard was a dangerous topic of conversation around Gaius.

Especially since it felt like it had been at least ten thousand years since her husband had touched her, or kissed her, or made her cry out in—

Crows take it. She was a grown woman.   It was entirely unfair that simply thinking of Bernard should reduce her to a starry-eyed schoolgirl like that.

Amara cleared her throat, took her notebook from the cabinet built into the base of the seat, and proceeded to change the subject. "Very well, sire.   We should arrive back in the capital sometime early tomorrow morning. The reports from High Lord Antillus should be waiting for you when you arrive, and the final movement orders for the Rhodesian legions should be in effect by then which—"

The coach swept into heavy cloud cover, and she paused to murmur a furylamp to life.

"Countess," Gaius said gently, before she could.   The First Lord reached out and folded the notebook shut, setting it aside.   "Come with me, please."

Amara blinked at him.

Without preamble, Gaius turned and opened the door of the coach. Wind howled in a sudden scream, whipping their clothing about, and the coach slewed slightly to one side as the sudden drag made the coach's progress uneven.

The First Lord stepped out into empty air, lifting away from the coach so smoothly that he might have been moving out onto solid ground.

Amara lifted her eyebrows, but followed him, summoning Cirrus to support her as she left the confines of the coach for the cold, clinging, dark-grey dampness of the heavy clouds.   They kept pace with the coach for a moment, and Gaius exchanged a nod with the leader of the accompanying Knights Aeris.   Then he slowed pace, and within seconds the air coach vanished into the clouds, leaving Gaius and Amara hovering alone in featureless grey.

Gaius flicked a hand through the air, and the roar of wind suddenly vanished. For a second, Amara expected her windstream to collapse and send her plummeting toward the ground, but Cirrus' support remained steady. Her hair still whipped around her head, as it always did, especially in a hover—only the sound vanished, dying to nothing more than the sigh of a quiet breeze.   Around them, Amara could hear the distant grumble of thunder, as somewhere, miles away, a spring storm gathered in the cloud cover.

"Sire," she said, confused. "The coach."

Gaius shook his head.   "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before, Amara, but secrecy was absolutely imperative.   No one can know where we're going, when we left—nothing."

She frowned and folded her arms against the ongoing winds.   She wasn't wearing her flying leathers, and she was surprised at how quickly a chill began settling into her skin.

"I take it we're not returning to the capital," she said quietly.

"No," Gaius said.

She nodded. "Why am I here?"

"I need someone I trust to come with me."

"Where, sire?" Amara asked.

"Kalare," Gaius said quietly.

Amara felt her eyes widen.   "Why there?"

His voice stayed quiet and steady.   "Because I've been sitting in the capital playing diplomat for too long, Amara, and this chaos," he gestured with a hand, taking in the entirety of the realm beneath them, "is the result. Allies and enemies alike have forgotten who I am. What I am.   I can't allow that to go on any longer."

Lightning flickered somewhere in the distant clouds, sending a flood of silver light through the swirling mists behind the First Lord.

"I'm going to remind them, Cursor. "His eyes hardened. "I'm going to war. And you're going with me."