Cursors's Fury

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.