Furies of Calderon (Codex Alera #1) - Page 7

Fidelias hated flying.

He sat on the litter, facing ahead, so that the wind sliced into his eyes and blew his hair straight back from his high forehead. On the seat facing him sat Aldrick the Sword, huge and relaxed as a newly fed lion. Odiana had curled up on Aldrick's lap to doze off hours before, and the water witch's dark hair danced and played in the wind, veiling the beauty of her features. Neither one evinced any signs of discomfort at the flight, physical or otherwise.

"I hate flying," Fidelias muttered. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the wind, and leaned over the edge of the litter. A brilliant moon, looming large among a sea of stars, painted the landscape below in silver and black. Wooded hills rolled slowly beneath them, a solid darkness, broken here and there by silver-kissed clearings and winding, half-luminescent rivers.

Four of the Knights Aeris from the camp bore them through the air, one at each pole of the litter. They wore harnesses that fitted them to the litter, supporting the weight of the three people inside, while the Knights' weight, in turn, was borne by the powerful furies at their command. Another half-dozen Knights Aeris flew in a loose ring around the litter, and moonlight glittered on the steel of their arms and armor.

"Captain," Fidelias called to the lead Knight. The man glanced back over his shoulder, murmured something, and drifted back through the air toward the litter.

"Sir?"

"Will it be much longer before we arrive in Aquitaine?"

"No, sir. We should be there before the hour is out."

Fidelias blinked. "That soon? I thought you said it would take us until dawn."

The Knight shook his head, eyes cooly scanning the sky ahead. "Fortune favors us, sir. The furies of the south are stirring and have brought us a strong wind to speed our way."

The former Cursor frowned. "That's highly unusual at this season, is it not, Captain?"

The man shrugged. "It's saved us hours of flight time and made it easier on everyone. We haven't even had to spell the men bearing the litter. Relax, sir. I'll have you in the High Lord's palace before the witching hour." And with that, the soldier accelerated, moving to take position ahead of the litter again.

Fidelias frowned and resettled on his seat. He glanced over the side of the litter again, and his stomach jumped and fluttered with an irrational sensation of fear. He knew that he was as safe flying in the litter, escorted by Knights Aeris, as anywhere in the realm, but some part of his mind simply would not casually accept the vast distance between himself and the ground below. Here, he was far from wood and earth, far from the furies he could call to his service, and that disturbed him. He had to rely upon the strength of the Knights with him rather than his own. And everyone other than himself had, in time, inevitably disappointed him.

He folded his arms and bowed his head against the wind, brooding. Gaius had used him from the very beginning. Used him with a purpose, to be sure, and never carelessly. He had been far too valuable a tool to waste through misuse or neglect. Indeed, at times, the precarious peace of the entire realm had occasionally hinged upon his ability to accomplish on behalf of the Crown.

Fidelias felt his frown deepen. Gaius was old-the old wolf that led the pack-and it was nothing more than a matter of time before he was hauled down to his death. But despite that brutal, simple truth, Gaius continued to fight against the inevitable. He could have turned over power to a nominal heir a decade ago, but instead, he had held on, wily and desperate, and delayed matters for a decade by pitting the High Lords against one another in bids to see who could position his daughter or niece to marry the First Lord and give birth to the new Princeps. Gaius (with Fidelias's aid, of course) had played the lords off of one another with merciless precision, until every High Lord of Alera spent years convinced that his candidate would surely be the one to wed Gaius. His eventual choice had pleased no one, not even High Lord Parcius, Caria's father, and even the most dense of the High Lords had realized, in time, that they had been played for fools.

The game had been well played, but in the end it had all been for nothing. The House of Gaius had never been a fertile one, and even if he had proved physically capable of producing an Heir (which Fidelias remained unsure about), the First Lady had not, as yet, shown herself to be with child, and

palace rumor held that the First Lord seldom went to the same bed in which his wife slept.

Gaius was old. He was dying. The star of his House was falling from the heavens, and anyone who blindly clung to the hem of his robes would fall with him.

Like Amara.

Fidelias frowned, while something nagged at him, distracted him, burned in his belly. It was a pity, to be sure, that Amara had chosen a fool's crusade rather than making an intelligent decision. Surely, if he'd had more time, it may have proved possible to encourage her to see a more rational point of view. Now, instead, he would have to act directly against her, if she interfered again.

And he did not want to do that.

Fidelias shook his head. The girl had been his most promising student, and he had let her come to mean too much to him. He had destroyed some three score men and women in his years as a Cursor-some of them as powerful and idealistic as Amara. He had never hesitated to perform his duty, never let himself be distracted by anything so trivial as personal attachment. His love was for Alera.

And that was really the issue at hand. Fidelias served the realm, not the First Lord. Gaius was doomed. Delay of the transfer of power from Gaius's hands to another could only cause strife and bloodshed among the High Lords who would wish to assume Gaius's station. It might even come to a war of succession, something unheard of since the dawn of Aleran civilization, but which was rumored to have been commonplace in the distant past. And should that happen, not only would the sons and daughters of Alera die point-lessly, fighting one another, but the division itself would be a signal fire to the enemies of the Realm-the savage Icemen, the bestial Marat, the ruthless Canim, and who knew what else in the unexplored wilds of the world. Above all else, such weakening of the Realm's unity had to be circumvented.

And that meant establishing a strong ruler, and swiftly. Already, the High Lords quietly defied the First Lord's authority. It would only be a matter of time before the High Lords and their cities disbanded the realm into a cluster of city-nations. And if that happened, it would be simple for the enemies of mankind to quietly nibble away at those realms until nothing was left.

Fidelias grimaced, his belly burning more sharply. It had to be done, like a battlefield surgeon forced to remove a mangled limb. There was nothing

that would make it less gruesome. The best one could hope for was to get it done as swiftly and cleanly as possible.

Which led to Aquitainus. He was the most ruthless, the most able and perhaps the strongest of the High Lords.

Fidelias's stomach roiled.

He had betrayed Gaius, the Codex, the Cursors. Betrayed his student, Amara. He had turned his back on them, to support a man who might become the most ruthless and bloodthirsty dictator Alera had ever known. The furies knew, he had tried everything in his power to convince Gaius to take another path.

Fidelias had been forced to this.

It was necessary.

It had to be done.

His stomach burned as the glowing furylights of Aquitaine appeared on the horizon.

"Wake up," he murmured. "We're almost there."

Aldrick opened his eyes and focused on Fidelias. One hand absently caressed Odiana's dark wealth of hair, and she let out a pleased little whimper in her sleep, writhing in the man's lap with liquid sensuality, before settling into stillness again. The swordsman watched Fidelias, his expression unreadable.

"Deep thoughts, old man?" Aldrick asked.

"Some. How will Aquitaine react?"

The big man pursed his lips. "It depends."

"On what?"

"On what he is doing when we interrupt him with bad news."

"Is it all that bad?"

Aldrick smiled. "Just hope he's up drinking. He's usually in a pretty good mood. Tends to forget his anger by the time the hangover has worn off."

"It was an idiot's plan to begin with."

"Of course. It was his. He isn't a planner of deception or subterfuge. But I've never met a man who could lead as strongly as he does. Or anyone with his raw power." Aldrick continued stroking the sleeping water witch's hair, his expression thoughtful. "Are you worried?"

"No," Fidelias lied. "I'm still too valuable to him."

"Perhaps, for now." Aldrick said. He smiled, a mirthless expression. "But I'll not be loaning you any money."

Fidelias clucked his teeth. "Direct action would have been premature in any case. By escaping, the girl may have done his Grace the biggest favor of his life."

"I don't doubt it," Aldrick murmured. "But somehow, I'm almost certain that he won't see it that way."

Fidelias studied the other man's face, but the swordsman's features revealed nothing. His grey eyes blinked lazily, and his mouth curled into a smile, as though taking amusement in Fidelias's lack of ability to gauge him. The Cursor frowned at the man, a mild expression, and turned to watch the city of Aquitaine come into sight.

First came the lights. Firecrafters by the dozens maintained the lights along the city's streets, and they burned with a gentle radiance through the mist-shrouded evening, all soft yellows, deep amber, pale crimson, until the hill upon which the city was built seemed itself to be one enormous, living flame, garbed in warmth and flickering color. Upon the city's walls, and just beyond them, lights burned with a cold, blue brilliance, casting the ground far around into stark illumination and long black shadows, their harsh glare vigilant against any would-be invaders.

As the litter glided down, and closer, Fidelias could begin to make out shapes in the shifting lights. Statues stood silent and lovely on the streets. Houses, all elegant lines and high arches, contested with one another to prove the most skillfully crafted, the most beautifully lit. Fountains sparkled and flickered, some of them illuminated from below, so that they burned violet or emerald in the darkness, pools of liquid flames. Trees rose up around houses and lined the streets, thriving and beautiful life that had been crafted as carefully as every other part of the city. They, too, wore veils of colored light, and their leaves, already changed into autumn's brilliant hues, shone in too many shades to count.

The sound of a bell tolling the late hour rose to the descending litter. Fidelias heard the trod of hooves upon paving stones somewhere below and raucous singing from a night club of some kind. Music came up from a garden party as the litter passed over it, strings supporting a sweet alto flute that pursued a gentle, haunting melody. The smell of wood smoke and spices still drifted on the evening breezes, along with the scent of late-blooming flowers and of rain on the wind.

To call Aquitaine beautiful was to call the ocean wet, Fidelias thought. Accurate enough, in its way, but wholly insufficient to the task.

They were challenged by a barking voice before they had come within a long bowshot of the High Lord's manor, a walled fortress surmounting the hill upon which the city stood. Fidelias watched as a man in the sable and scarlet surcoat of Aquitaine swept down from the air above. A dozen more hovered somewhere in the night sky above them, unseen-but the Cursor could feel the eddies of wind that their furies kicked up in keeping them aloft.

The challenger of the Knights Aeris guarding the High Lord's manor exchanged a pass phrase with the captain of Fidelias's own escort, though the exchange had the comfortable, routine air of a formality. Then the group swept on forward, down into the manor's courtyard, while more guards watched from the walls, along with leering statues wrought in the shapes of hunchbacked, gangly men. The moment Fidelias stepped from the litter, he felt the light, steady tremors of power in the earth that led back to each statue on the wall and found himself staring at the statues.

"Gargoyles:1" he breathed. "All of them?"

Aldrick glanced at the statues and then to Fidelias and nodded once.

"How long have they been kept here?"

"As long as anyone remembers," Aldrick rumbled.

"Aquitaine is that strong…" Fidelias pursed his lips in thought. He did not agree with the principles of anyone who kept furies within such a restrictive confine-much less those who would trap them there for generations. But it certainly confirmed, had he been in any doubt, that Aquitaine's raw power was more than sufficient for the task at hand.

The Knights Aeris accompanying the litter departed toward a bunk-house for food and drink, while the captain of Aquitaine's guard, a young man with an earnest expression and alert blue eyes, opened the door to the litter and extended a courteous hand to those within. Then he led them inside the manor proper.

Fidelias took casual note of the manor as he followed the young captain, marking the doors, the windows, the presence (or evident lack) of guards. It was an old habit, and one he would be foolish to surrender. He wanted to know the best way to leave any place he walked into. Aldrick walked beside him, casually carrying the still-sleeping Odiana as though she weighed no more than an armload of cloth, each footstep something solid, focused.

The young captain swung open a pair of double doors leading into a long feasting hall, complete with mountain-style fire pits built into the floors,

already burning though the season had not yet grown truly cold. That dim, crimson light was the only illumination in the hall, and Fidelias took a moment to pause inside the doors and allow his eyes to adjust.

The hall stretched out, lined with a double row of smooth marble pillars. Curtains covered the walls, providing a bit of aesthetic warmth and the perfect cover for eavesdroppers, guards, or assassins. The tables had been taken down for the night, and the only furniture in the hall was a table and several chairs upon a dais at the far end. The shapes of people moved about there, and Fidelias could hear the gentle music of strings.

The captain led them all straight down the hall and toward the dais.

Upon a large chair covered in the fur of a grass lion from the Amaranth Vale sprawled a man-as tall as Aldrick, Fidelias judged, but more slender, and with the appearance of a young man in the prime of his youth. Aquitai-nus had high cheekbones and a narrow face, led by a strong jaw whose lines were softened by the tumble of dark golden hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a simple scarlet blouse with black leather breeches and soft, black boots. A goblet dangled lazily in one hand, while the other held the end of a long strip of silken cloth that slowly unwound from the shapely girl dancing before him, gradually baring more and more of her skin. Aquitainus had eyes of pitch black, stark in that narrow face, and he watched the dancing slave with an almost feverish intensity.

Fidelias's eyes were drawn to the man standing behind and just a bit to one side of the High Lord's chair. In the dimness, details were difficult to make out. The man wasn't tall, perhaps only a few inches more than Fidelias himself, but was strongly built, his posture casually powerful, relaxed. He bore a sword at his hip-that much Fidelias could see-and a very slight bulge in his dark grey tunic perhaps revealed the presence of a hidden weapon. Fidelias met the silent man's eyes, briefly, and found the stranger's gaze to be opaque, assessing.

"If you value your head, Captain," Aquitainus murmured, without looking away from the girl, "it can wait until this dance is done." His voice, Fidelias noted, carried the faintest trace of a drunken slur.

"No, Your Grace," Fidelias said, stepping forward and past the captain, "it can't."

The High Lord's back stiffened, and he turned his head slowly toward Fidelias. The weight of the man's dark eyes fell onto the Cursor like a physical blow, and he drew in a sharp breath as he felt the stirring in the earth beneath

them, a slow and sullen vibration, deep within the stone-a reflection of the High Lord's anger.

Fidelias assumed a casually confident stance and reacted as though Aquitainus had acknowledged him. He clasped a fist over his heart and bowed.

There was a long silence before Fidelias heard Aquitainus's reaction. The man let out a low and relaxed laugh that echoed throughout the nearly deserted hall. Fidelias straightened again, to face the High Lord, careful to keep his expression schooled into neutral respect.

"So," Aquitainus purred. "This is the infamous Fidelias Cursor Callidus."

"If it please Your Grace, Cursor no longer."

"You seem rather unconcerned with my pleasure," Aquitainus noted, with a droll roll of the hand still clasping the dancing girl's cloth. "I almost find it disrespectful."

"No disrespect was intended, Your Grace. There are grave matters that require your attention."

"Require… my… attention," murmured Aquitaine with an elegant arch of brow. "My. I don't think I've been spoken to in that fashion since just before my last tutor took that untimely fall."

"Your Grace will find me a good deal more agile."

"Rats are agile," sniffed Aquitaine. "The oaf's real problem was that he thought he knew everything."

"Ah," Fidelias said. "You will not face that difficulty with me."

Aquitaine's dark eyes shone. "Because you really do know everything?"

"No, Your Grace. Only everything of importance."

The High Lord narrowed his eyes. He remained silent for two score of Fidelias's quickening heartbeats, but the Cursor refused to let his nervousness show. He took slow and even breaths and remained silent, waiting.

Aquitaine snorted and drank off his remaining wine with an effortless flick of his wrist. He held the goblet out to one side, waited a beat, then released it. The blocky man beside him reached out a hand, snake swift, and caught it. The stranger walked to the table on the dais and refilled the goblet from a glass bottle.

"My sources told me that you had a reputation for insouciance, Fidelias," Aquitaine murmured. "But I had no idea that it would be so readily forthcoming."

"If it please Your Grace, perhaps we might table this discussion for the moment. Time may be of the essence."

The High Lord accepted the goblet of wine from the stranger, glancing at the pretty slave, now kneeling on the floor before him, head bowed. Aquitaine let out a wistful sigh. "I suppose," he said. "Very well, then. Report."

Fidelias glanced at the stranger, then at the slave, and then at the hanging curtains. "Perhaps a more private setting would be more appropriate, Your Grace."

Aquitaine shook his head. "You can speak freely here. Fidelias, may I present Count Calix of the Feverthorn Border, in service to His Grace, High Lord of Rhodes. He has shown himself to be a shrewd and capable advisor and a loyal supporter of our cause."

Fidelias shifted his attention to the blocky man beside the High Lord's seat. "The Feverthorn Border. Isn't that where that illegal slaving operation got broken up a few years ago?"

Count Calix spared the former Cursor a thin-lipped smile. When he spoke, his voice came out in a light, rich tenor completely at odds with the heavy power evident in his body. "I believe so, yes. I understand that both the Slavers Consortium and the Dianic League gave you commendations for valor above and beyond the call of duty."

Fidelias shrugged, watching the other man. "A token gesture. I never was able to turn up enough information to bring charges against the slave ring's leader." He paused for a moment, then added, "Whoever he was."

"A pity," said the Count. "I imagine you cost someone a great deal of money."

"Most likely," Fidelius agreed.

"It could give a man good reason to hold a grudge."

Fidelius smiled. "I'm told those can be inimical to one's good health."

"Perhaps I'll put it to the test one day."

"Should you survive the experience, be sure to let me know what you learned."

Aquitaine watched the exchange, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. "I hate to interrupt your fencing, gentlemen, but I have other interests this evening, and we have issues to discuss." He took another sip of wine and waved at the other chairs on the dais. "Sit down. You, too, Aldrick. Should I have someone carry Odiana to her chambers so that she can rest?"

"Thank you, sir," Aldrick rumbled. "I'll keep her with me and take care of her later, if it's all the same to you."

They settled down into chairs facing Aquitaine. The High Lord gestured,

and the slave girl hurried to one side, returning with the traditional cloth and bowl of scented water. Then the girl settled at Fidelias's feet and unlaced his sandals. She removed the stockings beneath, and with warm, gentle fingers began washing Fidelias's feet.

He frowned down at the slave, pensively, but at a second gesture from the High Lord, Fidelias uttered a concise report of the events at the camp of the renegade Legion. Aquitaine's expression darkened steadily throughout, until, at the end it had grown to a scowl.

"Let me test my understanding of what you are telling me, Fidelias," Aquitaine murmured. "Not only were you unable to attain intelligence regarding Gaius's chambers from this girl-in addition, she escaped from you and every one of my Knights."

Fidelias nodded. "My status has been compromised. And she has almost certainly reported to the Crown by now."

"The second Legion has already been disbanded into individual centuries," Aldrick supplied. The slave moved to kneel at his feet and to remove his sandals and stockings as well. The single, long piece of scarlet cloth wound around her had begun to slip and gape, displaying an unseemly amount of supple, smooth skin. Aldrick regarded her with casual admiration as he continued. "They will meet at the rendezvous as planned."

"Except for the Windwolves," Fidelias said. "I advised Aldrick to send them ahead to the staging area."

"What!?" snarled Aquitaine, rising. "That was not according to the plan."

The blocky Calix came to his feet as well, his eyes bright. "I warned you, Your Grace. If the mercenaries are not seen in Parcia over the winter, there will be nothing to link them to anyone but you. You have been betrayed."

Aquitaine's furious gaze settled on Fidelias. "Well, Cursor? Is what he says true?"

"If you consider adjusting to changing conditions in the field treachery, Your Grace," Fidelias said, "then you may name me traitor, if it pleases you."

"He twists your own words against you, Your Grace," Calix hissed. "He is using you. He is a Cursor, loyal to Gaius. If you keep listening to him, he will lead you to your death at Gaius's feet. Kill him before he poisons your thoughts any further. He, this murderous thug, and his mad whore-they all want nothing but your destruction."

Fidelias felt his lips tighten into a smile. He looked from Aquitaine to Calix-then to Aldrick, where the slave crouched at his feet, her lips parted,

her eyes staring. Over Aldrick's lap, Odiana neither stirred nor spoke, but he could see her mouth turn up into a smile.

"Ah," Fidelias said, his own smile spreading wider. He folded one ankle over the other knee. "I see."

Aquitaine narrowed his eyes and stalked over to stand over Fidelias's chair. "You have interrupted a pleasant moment with the anniversary gift given me by my own dear wife. You have, it would seem, failed miserably in what you said you would do for me. Additionally, you have dispatched my troops in a fashion which could embarrass me acutely before the rest of the Lords Council, not to mention the Senate." He leaned down toward Fidelias and said, very gently, "I think it would be in your own best interest to give me a reason not to kill you in the next few seconds."

"Very well," Fidelias said. "If you will indulge me briefly, Your Grace, I may be able to let you decide for yourself whom you can trust."

"No!" sputtered Calix. "My lord, do not allow this deceitful slive to so use you."

Aquitaine smiled, but it was a cold, hard expression. His gaze swept to the Rhodisian Count, and Calix dropped silent at his glance. "My patience is wearing very thin. At the rate we're going, gentlemen, someone will be dead by the end of this conversation."

Heavy tension fell onto the room, thick as a winter blanket. Calix licked his lips, throwing a wide-eyed glare at Fidelias. Odiana made a soft sound and stirred artlessly on Aldrick's lap before settling again-leaving Aldrick's right arm free to reach for his sword, Fidelias noted. The slave seemed to take notice of the tension as well and crawled a bit backward, until she was no longer between the High Lord and anyone else in the room.

Fidelias smiled. He folded his hands and rested them on his knee. "If it please Your Grace, I will need paper and pen."

"Paper and pen? What for?"

"Easier to show you, Your Grace. But if you remain unsatisfied after, I offer you my life as penance."

Aquitaine's teeth flashed. "My esteemed wife would say that your life is lost in either case, were she here."

"Were she here, Your Grace," Fidelias agreed. "May I proceed?"

Aquitaine stared down at Fidelias for a moment. Then he gestured toward the slave, who went scurrying, returning a moment later with parchment and pen. Aquitaine said, "Be quick. My patience is rapidly running out."

"Of course, Your Grace." Fidelias accepted the paper and pen, dipped the quill into the inkpot, and swiftly made a few notes on the paper, careful to let no one see what he was writing. No one spoke, and the scritching of the quill seemed loud in the hall, along with the crackle of the fire pits, and the impatient tapping of the High Lord's boot.

Fidelias blew on the letters, then folded the paper in half, and offered it to Aquitaine. Without looking away from the man, he said, "Your Grace, I advise you to accelerate your plans. Contact your forces and move at once."

Calix stepped forward at once, to Aquitaine's side. "Your Grace, I must disagree in the strongest terms. Now is the time for caution. If we are discovered now, all will fall into ruin."

Aquitaine stared down at the letter, then lifted his eyes to Calix. "And you believe that by doing so you will protect my interests."

"And those of my Lord," Calix said. He lifted his chin, but the gesture meant little when the High Lord towered over him. "Think of who is advising you, Your Grace."

"Ad hominem," noted Aquitaine, "is a notoriously weak logical argument. And is usually used to distract the focus of a discussion-to move it from an indefensible point and to attack the opponent."

"Your Grace," Calix said, ducking his head. "Please, listen to reason. To act now would leave you at somewhat less than half your possible strength. Only a fool throws away an advantage like that."

Aquitaine lifted his eyebrows. "Only a fool. My."

Calix swallowed, "Your Grace, I only meant-"

"What you meant is of little concern to me, Count Calix. What you said, however, is another matter entirely."

"Your Grace, please. Do not be rash. Your plans have been well laid for so long. Do not let them fall apart now."

Aquitaine glanced down at the paper and asked, "And what do you propose, Your Excellency?"

Calix squared his shoulders. "Put simply, Your Grace-stick to the original plan. Send the Windwolves to winter in Rhodes. Gather your legions when the weather breaks in the spring and use them then. Bide. Wait. In patience there is wisdom."

"Who dares wins," murmured Aquitaine back. "I cannot help but wonder at how generous Rhodes seems to be, Calix. How he is willing to host the

mercenaries, to have his name connected with them, when the matter is settled. How thoroughly he has instructed you to protect my interests."

"The High Lord is always most interested in supporting his allies, Your Grace."

Aquitaine snorted. "Of course he is. We are all so generous with one another. And forgiving. No, Calix. The Cursor-"

"Former Cursor, Your Grace," Fidelias put in.

"Former Cursor. Of course. The former Cursor here has done a very good job of predicting what you would tell me." Aquitaine consulted the paper he held. "I wonder why that is." He moved his eyes to Fidelias and arched his eyebrows.

Fidelias watched Calix and said, 'Your Grace. I believe that Rhodes sent Calix here to you as a spy and eventually as an assassin-"

"Why you-" Calix snarled.

Fidelias overrode the other man, his voice iron. "Calix wishes you to wait so that there is time to remove you over the winter, Your Grace. The mercenaries will have several months to be tempted by bribes, meanwhile robbing you of their strength. Then, when the campaign begins, he will have key positions filled with people beholden to Rhodes. He can kill you in the confusion of battle, and therefore remove the threat you represent to him. Calix, here, was likely intended to be the assassin."

"I will not stand for this insult, Your Grace."

Aquitaine looked at Calix and said, "Yes. You will." To Fidelias, he said, "And your advice? What would you have me do?"

Fidelias shrugged. "South winds rose tonight where there should have been none. Only the First Lord could call them at this time of year. At a guess, he called the furies of the southern air to assist Amara or one of the other Cursors north-either to the capital or to the Valley itself."

"It could be coincidence," Aquitaine pointed out.

"I don't believe in coincidence, Your Grace," Fidelias said. "The First Lord is far from blind, and he has powers of furycrafting I can hardl