Princeps' fury by Jim Butcher

opened the door, and Gaius went inside. Amara stared after him for a moment, her lips compressed into a hard line. A quietly violent tide of emotion surged through her at the sight of the First Lord, there before her, at the sound of his voice, at his blithely competent, peremptory manner. He had unleashed the great fury Kalus upon the people of Kalare with the same kind of immediate, decisive calm, killing tens of thousands of innocent Alerans, civilians, along with the forces of the rebellious High Lord Kalarus.

    And she had stood upon a mountaintop overlooking the city with him and watched those people die.

    Amara hated him for making her see that.

    Bernard put his large, warm hand on her shoulder. “Love,” he said quietly. “Shall we?”

    Amara gave her husband as much of a smile as she could manage, then straightened her back and followed Gaius into his study.

    Like all the rest of the Citadel, the chamber was lavishly, exquisitely appointed without being overdone. There was a broad writing desk made of green-black hardwood from a Rhodesian tree found near the Feverthorn Jungle, surrounded by matching shelves that groaned with books of every description. Amara had seen many such studies in which the books had been nothing more than decoration. She had no doubt that in that room, every book had been both read and considered.

    Gaius crossed to a sideboard with brisk strides, opened it, and drew out a bottle of wine and a cup, every motion precise and focused—until Bernard shut the door behind him.

    Then the First Lord bowed his head for a moment, shoulders sagging. He took a couple of slow breaths, and Amara could hear them rasp in his lungs. Then he opened a bottle of what smelled like particularly pungent spicewine, fighting down a cough as he did, and drank a glass in several quick gulps.

    Amara traded frowns with her husband.

    The First Lord, it seemed, was not nearly as strong and fit as he would have the Citizenry believe. Granted, Amara had no doubt that he had permitted them to see his true condition deliberately, and for reasons of his own. Or perhaps he hadn’t. After all, Amara and Bernard had seen Gaius in far worse condition, during their trek through the swamps of Kalare. There would be no harm in letting his mask slip in front of them now.

    Gaius half filled his cup again and walked quietly over to his desk, settling carefully down behind it, wincing a bit as several joints creaked and popped. “First, Amara, allow me to apologize to you for the . . . rather uncompromising nature of the orders given to the Knights sent to bring you here. Given the situation, sensitivity had to be sacrificed to haste.”

    “Of course, sire,” she said stiffly. “I have never known you to employ a means which you did not feel justified by its ends.”

    He sipped from his cup, eyes studying her, and when he lowered it a faint, bitter smile was on his lips. “No. I suppose not.” He looked from her to Bernard, and said, “Count Calderon, I was impressed with your crafting, your skills, and most importantly, your judgment during our enterprise last year. I have need of your services again—and of yours, Countess, if you are willing.”

    Bernard inclined his head, his expression guarded and neutral. “How may I serve the Realm?”

    How may I serve the Realm? Not, Amara noted, How may I serve the Crown?

    If Gaius took note of the phrasing, no gesture or expression revealed it. He reached into a drawer of his desk and unrolled a heavy parchment—a wide map of the Realm. Upon it, detailed much as the map shown in the Senatorium, was an illustration of the spread of the Vord invasion.

    “What I did not tell our Citizens,” Gaius said quietly, “is that the Vord have somehow developed the ability to use furycraft.”

    “That’s not new,” Bernard rumbled. “They did so in Calderon.”

    Gaius shook his head. “They were able to use the taken bodies of the local holders to respond to furies a