Isana turned to find Captain Miles standing in the doorway, still in full battle armor, his helmet under his left arm. The armor and helm were both dented and scratched in too many places to count. The right arm of his tunic was soaked in blood to the elbow, and his hand rested on the hilt of his gladius. His hair was Legion-cropped, greying, and he smelled of sweat and rust and blood. He was not a particularly large man, and he had plain features that gave Isana an immediate sense of fidelity and loyalty. He moved with a detectable limp as he stepped into the room, but though he spoke to Isana and Giraldi, his eyes were on the man in the healing tub.
“Cereus played the wounded bird and lured them in. They came in to take him down, and I was hiding in the rafters. I hit the boy from behind and wounded him badly enough to make Kalarus panic and pull him out.”
“Captain,” Giraldi said with a nod. “I heard Kalarus tried to roast you for it, sir.”
Miles shrugged. “I wasn’t in the mood for roast. I ran away.” He nodded to Isana. “Steadholder. Do you know who I am?”
Isana glanced at Fade and back to Miles. They were brothers, though Miles, like the rest of Alera, had thought Araris dead for nearly twenty years. “I know you,” she said quietly.
“I would ask a favor of you.” He glanced at Giraldi, including him in the sentiment. “A few private moments of your time, Steadholder?”
“She’s working,” Giraldi said, and though his tone was not disrespectful, neither was it prepared to compromise. “She doesn’t need any distractions.”
Miles hovered for a moment, as though uncertain of which way to move. Then he said, “I spoke to Lady Veradis. She said that there might not be much more time.”
Isana glanced away. Despair washed through her for a moment, her weariness lending it tremendous potency. She pushed the tide of it away, then said, “It’s all right Giraldi.”
The centurion grunted. Then he nodded to Isana and limped to the door on his cane. “A moment,” he said to Miles. “I’ll hold you to it, sir.”
Miles nodded, and waited for Giraldi to depart the room. Then he went to Fade’s side, knelt, and laid a hand on the unconscious slave’s head. “He’s on fire,” Miles said quietly.
“I know,” Isana replied. “I’m doing all that I can.”
“I should have come sooner,” Miles said, his voice bitter. “Should have been here every day.”
From outside, there came the loud, hollow cough of thunder that accompanied a firecrafter’s assault, when fire would suddenly blossom from nothing into a white-hot sphere. The fire-thunder was answered, seconds later, by an almost-continuous rumbling from the glowering storm.
“You’ve been somewhat busy,” Isana said, tired amusement in her voice.
Miles shook his head. “It wasn’t that. It was…” He frowned. “My big brother. He always won. He’s been in fights that should have killed him time and time again. And even when he did die, he managed to come back. It may have taken him twenty years, but he did it.” Miles shook his head. “Invincible. Maybe part of me didn’t want to admit that he might not be. That I might..
Lose him, Isana thought, finishing his thought.
“Can he hear me?” Miles asked.
Isana shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s been in and out of consciousness, but he’s grown more incoherent each day.”
Miles bit his lip and nodded, and Isana felt the depth of his grief, pain, and regret. He looked up at her, his eyes frightened, almost like a child’s. “Is what Veradis said true?” he asked. “Is he going to die?”
Isana knew what Miles wanted to hear. His emotions and his eyes were begging her for hope.
She met Miles’s eyes, and said quietly, “Probably. But I’m not going to give up on him.”
Miles blinked his eyes several times and moved his right hand as though brushing sweat from his forehead. It left his face smeared with thin streaks of the blood on his sleeve. “All right,” he said quietly. Then he leaned down closer to Fade. “Rari. It’s Miles. I’m…” He bowed his head, at a loss for words. “I’m here, Rari. I’m here.”
He looked up at Isana. “Is there anything I can do help you?”
Isana shook her head. “He’s… he’s very tired. And very sick. And he isn’t fighting it. He isn’t trying to recover.”
Miles frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him. Why not?”
Isana let out a sigh. “I don’t know. He’s only been lucid enough to speak for a few moments. And even then, he wasn’t making much sense. Guilt, perhaps. Or perhaps he’s just too tired.”
Miles stared down at Fade for a moment. He was about to speak when boots thumped up to the door.
“Captain!” called a young man’s warbling voice. One of the citadel’s pages, then. “My lord requests your immediate presence.”
Miles looked up at Isana, and called, “On my way.” Then he bent down and leaned his forehead against Fade’s for a second. Then he rose. “Should he come around again before… Please tell him I came to see him.”
“Of course,” Isana said.
“Thank you,” Miles said.
Miles left the room. Giraldi stuck his head back in, glanced around once, then went back out. He shut the door and leaned his back against it to prevent any more disturbances, Isana supposed.
Miles had been right. Fade was not the sort of man simply to surrender. He had lived with the guilt of Septimus’s death for twenty years, yet never attempted to end his life, never given in to despair.
It had to be something else. Something more.
Bloody crows, Isana thought. If only he could speak to her. Even if just for a moment. She ground her teeth in frustration.
Outside, fire-thunder boomed and cracked. Trumpets blared. Drums rattled. Beneath them, the roar of angry armies. The sullen sky flickered with spiteful thunder.
Isana finished the broth, forced all such distractions from her mind, and went back to work.
Chapter 28
Captain Cyril stared at Ehren for a long moment. Then his mouth turned down into a thoughtful frown. He studied the almost-too-bright silver of one of Gaiuss personal coins, given to the Cursors as tokens of their authority. A full minute passed before he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” Ehren said, his tone grim and calm.
They stood inside the captain’s command tent, flaps down, lit by a pair of soft yellow furylamps. When they arrived, Cyril had been awake, armored, and waiting for them without a trace of sleep lingering in his eyes. His bedroll was neatly stored atop the standard trunk in the corner. The soldier who led by example.
A brief silence followed Ehren’s reply, and Magnus used the time to refresh the captain’s cup of tea. Max waggled his own empty cup at Magnus. Magnus arched an eyebrow at him, then passed him the carafe. Max smiled and poured his own, then refilled Tavi’s as well.
“Marcus?” Max asked.
Valiar Marcus shook his head, declining. The ugly old centurion stood beside the captain, scratching at his head. “Sir, I have to wonder if this isn’t a hoax of some kind. The Canim have never come to Alera’s shores in such numbers.”
Ehren looked ragged and tired, but he bristled at the First Spear’s words. “Are you calling me a liar, centurion?”
“No,” the First Spear said, meeting Ehren’s eyes. “But a man may speak the truth and still be incorrect.”
Ehren clenched his hands into fists, but Cyril stopped him with a hard look. “The First Spear is right to be cautious, sir Cursor,” he said to Ehren.
“Why?” Ehren demanded.
“Because of the timing,” Cyril said. “Kalarus’s Legions have marched upon the forces of the First Lord.”
Ehren stared at him for a moment. “What? “
Cyril nodded. “Ceres is under siege. Kalarus’s forces have cut off the eastern High Lords for the time being. Placida and Attica stand neutral. If Kalarus could manage to create a false threat from the Canim and force Aleran Legions to respond, it could spread Gaius’s supporters out more thinly, rob them of the advantage of numbers.”