"How is he?" Bernard rumbled quietly.
"The same. Or if he's any better, I can't see it. Bernard, shouldn't those sores have closed by now?"
"Mmmm," he said. "Older folks can be slow to heal without a watercrafter to help them. He hasn't any fever, and there's no sign of blood poisoning. I'd prefer it if he rested for a couple of days, but…"
"But he won't," Amara sighed.
"It could be worse," Bernard said. "So long as they close up before we hit the swamps, we should be all right."
"What if they don't?" Amara asked him.
He leaned back from her and traced a fingertip over her cheekbone. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
"We'll worry about that if it happens," he said quietly.
Gaius stirred and sat up, blinking his eyes once or twice. He nodded to Bernard. "Count. Our friends have moved on?"
Bernard nodded. "Yes, sire. It won't hurt us to take a bit of rest here, if you like."
The First Lord shook his head, planted his staff, and clambered to his feet. "No, out of the question. We've no time to spare."
"Aye, sire," Bernard said.
He offered Amara a hand up, and she squeezed his fingers once after she was on her feet. Bernard set off in the lead of the little group again, and Gaius grunted with discomfort on his first few steps, then determinedly lengthened his stride, using his staff to help him.
Amara stared at the limping First Lord for a moment, biting her lip. Then she followed him, glancing frequently around them and over her shoulder, and they continued on their way to Kalare.
Chapter 20
Isana followed the young valet to Sir Cyril's office, on the ground floor of the Legion's command building. Only a single legionare was on duty at the door, this time-indeed, since the First Aleran and the Guard Legions had departed, the entire town of Elinarch seemed almost deserted, and any little sound rang out with an eerie clarity in the quiet streets.
The valet led her through a little antechamber and nodded at the door. "There you are, Steadholder."
"Thank you," Isana said quietly. "Should I knock?"
The valet shook his head. "He's expecting you, ma'am."
Isana nodded at the young man and turned to the office door. She opened it and stepped into a rather large office. It was crowded with tables and bookshelves, all of them neatly, precisely stacked with books, papers, and scrolls. One wall was covered entirely by at least a dozen maps on broad sheets of parchment.
Sir Cyril sat behind a much-used wooden desk, and he rose with a polite smile.
Isana felt it when a flash of pain went through the remains of his leg, a savage stroke of agony that bored into the joint of his thigh and hip. Her own leg twitched in sympathy at the ghostly sensation. She felt him assert control over the pain an instant later, smothering the fire of it in a blanket of pure determination.
"No, please, sir," Isana said. "Don't get up."
"Nonsense," Sir Cyril said. He swept into a restrained bow. "It's not often I entertain a celebrity."
She shook her head wryly and replied with a simple curtsey. "Hardly that."
"I disagree," Cyril said, sitting again. He let out an almost-inaudible sigh of relief as he took the weight off of his leg. "I've gotten several letters mentioning that you'd favorably impressed many of the Realm's Citizenry, during your abolition campaign."
"As of yet, no laws have been passed," she said, her voice dry. "It's been two years. I can hardly call that impressive."
"Big change takes time," Cyril replied, his tone a polite disagreement. "And the war has certainly been"-he glanced at his leg and flashed a quick, wry grin at Isana-"a distraction."
"Certainly that," she agreed.
"Even leaving such matters aside, this relief column you organized is a rare thing," he continued. "It's already saving lives."
She shook her head. "Any number of people could have done what I have."
"But they didn't," Cyril said. "You did."
"Someone had to."
He tilted his head and studied her for a moment, then shrugged, and said, "Someone should have. It isn't the same thing."
Isana waved a hand. "Sir Cyril, I hope you don't think I'm rude for saying this. But I can't imagine why you sent for me."
He gave her a steady look, and his speculative gaze was intense enough that she could almost feel it on her skin. "Can't you?" he asked.
Isana sighed. "Honestly, I can't. I was packing to leave, in fact. So, Sir Cyril, I ask you again. Why am I here?"
Cyril's eyebrows went up. "This is somewhat disappointing." He offered her a whimsical smile. "I was hoping you would tell me." He raised his voice, and called, "Galen! Send him in, please!"
The door opened a moment later, and a tall man in a fine Legion-issue dress tunic entered the-
Tavi entered the room, she corrected herself. His green eyes fell on her, and his step slowed in hesitation for just a moment. She felt a surge of emotion from him, so mixed and confused that she hardly knew what to make of it, other than to sense a good deal of anger mixed through it all, unless it was humiliation or-
Great furies.
Araris had told him.
Isana stared at Tavi for a second, meeting his gaze. He nodded to her, and said, "Excuse me." As he did, the fountain of emotion began to dwindle, until there was nothing more coming from him. He had been able to hide his feelings from her since he'd been eleven years old. It had always made her a little proud of him-as well as exasperated. He'd been entirely too… creatively energetic, at that age. She'd needed every advantage she could get to stay a step ahead of his mischief and-
And they were not alone, she reminded herself. She glanced aside at Cyril, then rose, politely, offering another curtsey to Tavi, precisely as she had to Cyril. "Good morning, Captain."
Tavi smiled at her and inclined his head. "Steadholder. Thank you for coming. And thank you for seeing me, Sir Cyril."
Isana tilted her head. "Why aren't you with your Legion, Captain?"
"Mmmm," Cyril said. "I was wondering the same thing myself. Nalus's letter was painfully vague."
"I've been arrested and charged with treason, Steadholder," Tavi replied cheerfully. "They sent me back here in irons, though Sir Cyril was kind enough to accept my parole and have them stricken." He held up his wrists, each of them ringed with bruises and small cuts.
Isana blinked for a moment and fought to keep herself from gasping, or letting out a cry of distress. Not in front of Sir Cyril.
"Treason," Cyril said, sighing. "What happened out there?"
"Long story," Tavi said. He put a hand on the chair Isana had been sitting in, holding it for her. "Steadholder. Shall we sit?"
Isana frowned gently at him, trying to understand what was behind his expression-but he was closed to her.
Yes. She'd known him that well, at least. He'd reacted just as she feared he would.
Crows take Araris, she thought quietly, sadly. But not until after they've taken me. And the stives who made it necessary to take every measure in reach to protect him-including lying to him.
Araris had been right, of course. Tavi had deserved to know. But she had wanted to put it off for just one more day, and now…
Sometimes it felt like everything she turned her hand to withered and died. It was ridiculous, of course. Not everything had. Her steadholt was prospering, after all. The relief column had been a success. Perhaps it was only when her heart was involved that she had such ruinous bad fortune.
Or, she thought, ruinously had judgment. Credit where credit is due.