Her windstream vanished.
She fell.
She thrashed her arms and legs in panic, out of control, desperately calling upon her furycraft. She could not reach Cirrus, could not move the air, could not fly.
Above her, the enemy Knight recalled his fury and recovered his air stream, then dived down after her, fitting another arrow to his bow, and she suddenly knew that he did not mean to let her fall to her death.
He was a professional and would take no chances.
He would make sure that she was dead before she ever hit the ground.
Amara fumbled for her knife, a useless gesture, but twisting her hips to reach it sent her into an uncontrolled, tumbling spin, more severe and more terrifying than anything she had felt before.
She saw in flashes, in blurred images.
The ground waxed larger beneath her, all fields and rolling pastures in the ruddy sunlight.
The scarlet sun scowled down at her.
The enemy Knight raised his bow for the killing shot.
Then the misty scarlet haze they fell through moved.
Ground.
Sky.
Sun.
The scarlet haze condensed into dozens of smaller, opaque, scarlet clouds. Ruddy vinelike appendages emerged from the undersides of each smaller cloud, and writhed and whipped through the air with terrifying and purposeful motion.
An eerie shriek like nothing Amara had ever heard assaulted her ears.
A dozen bloody vines shot toward her pursuer.
The enemy Knight loosed his shot. The impact of the bizarre tendrils sent the shaft wide.
The Knight screamed, one long, continuous sound of agony and terror, a young man’s voice that cracked in the middle.
Dark crimson cloudbeasts surrounded him, vines ripping, tearing.
His screams stopped.
Amara’s vision blurred over, the disorientation too great, and she called desperately, uselessly to Cirrus, struggling to move as she would if the fury had been there to guide her. She managed to slow the spinning, but she could do nothing else. The land below rose up, enormous, prosperous-and ready to receive her body and blood.
Cirrus was beyond her call.
She was going to die.
There was nothing she could do about it.
Amara closed her eyes, and pressed her hands against her stomach.
She didn’t have the breath to whisper his name. Bernard.
And then gale winds rose up to surround her, pressing hard against her, slowing her fall. She screamed in frustration and fear at her helplessness and felt herself angling to one side, pulling out of the fall as if it had been an intentional dive.
The land rushed up and Amara came to earth in the furrowed field of a stead-holt. She managed to strike with her feet and tried to fold herself into a controlled roll to spread out her momentum. The rich, fresh earth was soft enough to slow her momentum, and after fifty feet of tumbling she fetched up to a halt at the feet of a steadholt scarecrow.
She lay on her side, dazed, confused, aching from dozens of impacts suffered during the landing, and covered with earth and mud and what might have been a bit of manure.
Lady Aquitaine alighted near her, landing neatly.
She was in time to be sprinkled with the blood of the Knight taken by the cloudbeasts. Amara had beat it to the ground.
Lady Aquitaine stared up in shock, bright beads of blood on one cheekbone and one eyelash. “Countess?” she breathed. “Are you all right?”
The coach descended as well, and Bernard all but kicked the door off its hinges in his hurry to exit and run to Amara. He knelt with her, his expression almost panicked, staring at her for a breath, then examining her for injuries.
“I managed to slow her fall,” Lady Aquitaine said. “But she’s been badly bruised and may have cracked some bones.”
The words sounded pleasant to Amara, though she could not remember what they meant. She felt Bernard’s hand on her forehead and smiled. “ M all right, my lord,” she murmured.
“Here, Count,” Lady Aquitaine said. “Let me help you.”
They fussed over her, and it felt nice.
Fear. Pain. Terror. Too much of it for one day.
Amara just wanted to rest, to sleep. Surely things would be better after she rested.
“No broken bones,” Lady Aquitaine said.
“What happened up there?” Bernard asked, his voice a low growl.
Lady Aquitaine lifted her eyes to the red skies above.
Droplets of blood still fell, tiny beads of red that had once been a human being.
She frowned and murmured, perplexed, “I have no idea.”
Chapter 23
The next morning, Isana woke when Lady Veradis opened the door. The pale young healer’s dark-circled eyes were even more worn than the day before, but she wore the colors of her fathers house in a simple gown. The young woman smiled at Isana and said, “Good morrow, Steadholder.”
“Lady,” Isana said, with a nod. She looked around the room. “Where is Fade?”
Lady Veradis entered the room, bearing a tray covered with a cloth napkin. “Being bathed and fed. I’ll have him brought in once you are ready.”
“How is he?”
“Somewhat disoriented with fever. Weary. Otherwise lucid.” She nodded at the food. “Eat and ready yourself. I will return presently.”
Isana pushed worry from her mind, at least long enough to wash herself and partake of the sausages, fresh bread, and cheeses Veradis had brought. Once some of the food had touched her tongue, Isana found herself famished, and ate with abandon. The food would be necessary to keep her strength up during the healing, and she should take as much as she could.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Veradis asked, “Steadholder? May we enter?”
“Of course.”
Veradis came in. Three guards bore a healer’s tub readied with water. The tub wasn’t as large as the one from the day before, and it bore spots of rust and wear that marked it as a well-worn member of its breed. It had probably been stored in a closet somewhere, forgotten until the sudden attack on the city demanded the use of every tub that could be found. The guards set it down on the floor, then one of them drew a low chair over to sit beside it.
A moment later, Giraldi came in, supporting Fade with one shoulder despite his limp and his cane. Fade wore only a long, white robe, his face was flushed with fever, his eyes glazed, and his wounded hand had swollen up into a grotesque mockery of itself.
Giraldi grimly helped the scarred man over to the tub and had to help Fade remove the robe. Fade’s lean, wire-muscled body showed dozens of old scars Isana had never seen before, especially across his back, where the marks of the whipping that had accompanied his branding stood out from his skin, as thick as Isana’s littlest finger.
Fade settled weakly into the tub, and when he laid his head back against the wooden rest, he seemed to fall asleep instantly.
“Are you prepared?” Veradis asked quietly.
Isana rose and nodded, without speaking.
Veradis gestured to the chair. “Sit, then. Take his hand.”
Isana did so. The low chair put her head on a level with Fade’s, and she watched the scarred slave’s features as she reached down to take up his healthy hand and grip it between hers.
“It isn’t a terribly complicated crafting,” Veradis said. “The infection has a natural tendency to gather at the site of the wound. So concentrated, his body cannot drive it out. You must dilute the infection, spreading it more thinly throughout his body, where he will have a chance to fight it off.”
Isana frowned and drew in a slow breath. “But that will spread the sickness throughout his whole body. If I stop, the infection could take root anywhere. One site is bad enough. I could not handle two at once.”
Veradis nodded. “And it could take his body days to fight off the infection.”
Isana bit her lip again. Days. She had never maintained a healing furycraft for more than a few hours.
“It isn’t a very good way to help him,” Veradis said quietly. “It is, however, the only way. Once you begin, you cannot stop until he has won through. If you do, the garic oil will corrupt his blood entirely. He’ll die within an hour.” She reached into a pocket and drew out a soft, supple cord, offering it to Isana. “Are you sure you wish to attempt this?”