Furies of Calderon by Jim Butcher Page B

risked my life to get it?”

    Gaius nodded. “Yes, Cursor. You swore your life to the service of the Crown, did you not?”

    Amara looked down, her face coloring, anger and confusion and disappointment piling up in her belly. “Yes, milord.”

    “Then report. I do have to be at dinner shortly.”

    Amara took a breath, and without looking up, she recounted the events of the day—what she and Fidelias had seen, what she knew about the insurgent Legion, and especially of the strength and estimated numbers of the Knights accompanying it.

    She looked up at the end of her report. Gaius’s face looked older, the lines deeper, somehow, as though her words to him had drained out a little more of his life, his youth, his strength.

    “The note. The one you were allowed to read,” Gaius began.

    “A diversion, milord. I know. An attempt to cast suspicion elsewhere. I do not believe Lord Atticus to have a hand in this.”

    “Perhaps. But remember that the note was addressed to the commander of the second Legion.” Gaius shook his head. “That would seem to indicate that more than one of the High Lords is conspiring against me. This may be the effort of one to ensure that the blame for the entire matter falls on the other.”

    “Assuming there are only two, milord.”

    Gaius’s eyes wrinkled further, at the corners. “Yes. Assuming all of them aren’t in it together, eh?” The brief smile faded. “And that they wished details of my inner chambers from you seems to indicate that they believe they could accomplish an assassination, and so take power directly.”

    “Surely not, milord. They could not kill you.”

    Gaius shrugged. “Not if I saw it coming. But the power to shake mountains does little good if the knife is already buried in one’s throat.” He grimaced. “One of the younger High Lords. It must be. Anyone of any age would simply use Time as his assassin. I am an old man.”

    “No, Your Majesty. You are—”

    “An old man. An old man married to a willful and politically convenient child. An old man who rarely sleeps at night and who needs to be on time to dinner.” He eyed Amara up and down and said, “Night is falling. Are you in condition to travel?”

    “I believe so, milord.”

    Gaius nodded. “Events are stirring all over Alera. I can feel it in my bones, girl. The march of feet, the restless migration of beasts. Already the behemoths sing in the darkness off the western coast, and the wild furies of the north country are preparing a cold winter this year. A cold winter…” The First Lord drew in a breath and closed his eyes. “And voices speak loudly. Tension gathers in one place. The furies of earth and air and wood whisper everywhere that something dangerous is abroad and that the peace our land has enjoyed these past fifteen years nears its end. Metal furies hone the edges of swords and startle smiths at the forge. The rivers and the rains wait for when they shall run red with blood. And fire itself burns green of a night, or blue, rather than in scarlet and gold. Change is coming.”

    Amara swallowed. “Perhaps they are only coincidences, milord. They may not be—”

    Gaius smiled again, but the expression was skeletal, wasted. “I’m not that old, Amara. Not yet. And I have work for you. Attend.”

    Amara nodded and focused on the image.

    “Are you familiar with the significance of the Calderon Valley?”

    Amara nodded once. “It lies just over the isthmus between Alera and the plains beyond. There is only one pass through the mountains, and it runs through the valley. If anyone wants to come into our lands afoot, they must come through Calderon Valley.”

    “Anyone meaning the Marat, of course,” Gaius said. “What else do you know of the place?”

    “What they taught at the Academy, milord. Very fertile land. Profitable. And it was where the Marat killed your son, milord.”

    “Yes. The Marat horde-master. He killed the Princeps and set a chain of events