Princeps Fury

“But what if I can’t?” she asked, without malice or grief in the tone. After a second, she felt startled to realize that she didn’t feel any, either. Or at least, not nearly so much as she had in the past. “I’m not trying to gather sympathy, love. It’s a rational question. If I can’t provide you with an heir, what will you do?”

“We adopt,” Bernard said promptly.

She arched an eyebrow. “Bernard, the laws regarding Citizenship-”

“Oh, to the crows with those codes,” Bernard spat, grinning. “I’ve read them. They’re mostly an excuse for Citizens not to give up their money and status to anyone but their own children. Great furies know, if it was all based upon blood, all those bastard children, like Antillar Maximus, should certainly be inheriting Citizenship.”

“Adopt the bastard of a Citizen,” Amara mused.

“They’d have every bit as much potential for strong furycraft as a child born of us would,” Bernard said. “And crows, there are enough of them, the way some Citizens carry on. Why not provide some kind of positive direction for a few of them? I’d bet every sword in my armory that nearly every one of those mercenary Knights of the Aquitaines is a bastard child of a Citizen.”

“Suppose we manage to get away with it?” she asked him. “Then what?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “We raise them.”

“Raise them.”

“Yes. You’ll be a good mother.”

“Ah. It’s that simple, is it?”

He laughed, a warm, booming laugh that rolled through the trees. “Raising a child isn’t complicated, love. It isn’t easy, but it isn’t complicated, either.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him. “How’s it done, then?”

He shrugged. “You just love them more than air and water and light. From there, everything else comes naturally.”

He stopped and tugged gently on her hand, turning her to face him. He touched her cheek, very lightly, with the blunt fingertips of one hand.

“Understand me,” he said quietly, his eyes earnest. “I haven’t given up on the idea of your bearing my children, and I never will.”

She smiled quietly. “Depending on what nature has to say,” she replied, “we may have to agree to disagree on that issue.”

“Then let me tell you exactly where I’m drawing the line, Calderonus Amara,” he rumbled. “I’m building a future. You’re going to be in it. And we’re going to be happy. I’m not willing to compromise on that.”

She blinked up at him several times. “Love,” she said in a near whisper, “in the next few days, we’re going to begin a mission for the Crown that, in all probability, will kill us both.”

Bernard snorted. “Heard that before. And so have you.” He leaned down and kissed her mouth, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with the enormous, warm, gentle power behind that kiss, and the touch of his hand. She felt herself melt against him, returning the kiss measure for measure, slow and intent as the light began to change from wan grey to morning gold.

It ended a time later, and she felt a little dizzy.

“I love you,” she said quietly.

“I love you,” he said. “No compromises.”

* * *

The last ridgeline between them and their eventual area of operation was at the top of a long slope, and Amara’s horse reached it several moments before Bernard’s. The poor beast labored mightily under Bernard’s sheer size, and over the course of many miles, it had added up to a steep toll in fatigue.

Amara crested the rise and stared down at the broad valley, several miles south of the city of Ceres. The wind was from the north, chill without being unpleasant-even the depths of winter were seldom harsh, there in the sheltered southern reaches of the Realm. She turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying it. Ceres lay several leagues north of their current position, at the end of the furycrafted causeway that ran through the valley below. From there, she and Bernard would be able to wait for the Vord to pass by, then slip among them.

The wind suddenly felt a little colder. She shivered and turned her head to survey the valley below her.

The sky to the south was smudged with a dark haze.

Amara drew in a sharp breath, lifted her hands, and called to Cirrus. Her fury shimmered into the space between her hands, bending light, letting her see into the far distance much more clearly than she could have on her own.

Dozens and dozens of plumes of smoke rose into the sky, far to the south-and crows, so many of them that from where she stood they almost seemed like clouds of black smoke themselves, wheeled and swirled over the valley.

Amara turned her gaze to the causeway, and with Cirrus’s help, she could now see, as she had not before, that the furycrafted road was crowded with people, traveling with as much haste as they could manage-holders, mostly, men, women, and children, many of them half-dressed, barefoot, some of them carrying unlikely bits of household paraphernalia, though most carried nothing. Some of the holders were doing their best to herd livestock. Some drove carts-many loaded with what looked like wounded legionares.

“It’s too soon,” Amara breathed. “Days too soon.”

She was hardly aware of Bernard’s presence until he rumbled, “Amara. What is it?”

She shook her head and wordlessly leaned over, reaching out to let him see through the sightcrafting Cirrus had provided.

“Crows,” Bernard breathed.

“How could this have happened?” Amara asked.

Bernard was silent for a second, then let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter. “Of course.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“We were told that they’re furycrafting now, correct?”

“Yes.”

He gestured at the road below. “They’re using the causeways.”

A chill went through Amara’s belly. Of course. The explanation was utterly simple, and yet she had never even considered it. The furycrafted roads of Alera, whose construction allowed Alerans to travel swiftly and almost tirelessly across the countryside, were a staple of life, practically a feature of the landscape. They were also the single most reliable advantage Alera had in defending the Realm against the foes that so often outnumbered her. The causeways allowed the Legions to march a hundred leagues in a single day-more, if the need was dire. They meant that the Legions would always be able to field a maximum amount of force to ideal positions.

Of course, none of those enemies had used furycraft.

If Bernard was right, and the Vord could make use of the causeways, Amara wondered, then what else could they do? Could they intercept messages sent by water fury through the rivers of the Realm? Could they tamper with the weather? Could they, bloody crows, rouse the sleeping wrath of one or more of the Great Furies, as Gaius had done with Kalus, the previous year?

Amara stared at the fleeing holders and the rising smoke and the circling crows, and in her heart became abruptly certain of a simple, undeniable fact.

Alera could never survive what was coming.

Perhaps if they had acted sooner, in accord, instead of bickering and infighting, something could have been done. Perhaps if more people had heeded their warnings, and had been willing to back their belief with resources enough to create some kind of sentinel organization, it might have been nipped in the bud.

But instead… Amara knew-not feared, not suspected, but knew-that they were too late.

The Vord had come, and Alera was going to fall.

“What are we going to do?” Amara whispered.

“The mission,” Bernard replied. “If they’re using the causeway, they’ve got their crafters with them. In fact, it should make them easier to find. We just follow the road.”