Cursors's Fury

“He has her child,” Amara stated, her voice flat and cold.

Lady Aquitaine arched a brow. “You seem offended.”

“Should I not be?” Amara asked. “Should not you?”

“Your own master is little different, Amara,” Lady Aquitaine said. “Ask High Lord Atticus. Ask Isana her opinion on his decision to relocate her nephew to the Academy. And did you think he hasn’t noticed your relationship with the good Count Bernard? Should your hand turn against him, Amara, do not think for a moment he would not use whatever he could to control you. He’s simply more elegant and tasteful than to throw it in your face.”

Amara stared steadily back at Lady Aquitaine. Then she said, in a quiet voice, “You are very wrong.”

The High Lady’s mouth curled into another cool little smile. “You are very young.” She shook her head. “It is almost as though we live in two different Realms.”

“I appreciate your insight into Kalarus’s character-or rather the lack thereof. But what advantage does it give us?”

“The lever Kalarus uses,” Lady Aquitaine said, “will serve you just as ably.”

Amara’s stomach turned in disgust. “No,” she said.

Lady Aquitaine turned more fully to Amara. “Countess. Your sensibilities are useless to the rule of a realm. If that woman does not speak to you, your lord will fail to muster the support he needs to defend his capital, and whether or not he lives, his rule will be over. Thousands will die in battle. Food shipments will be delayed, destroyed. Famine. Disease. Tens of thousands will fall to them without ever being touched by a weapon.”

“I know that,” Amara spat.

“Then if you truly would prevent it, would protect this Realm you claim to serve, then you must set your squeamishness aside and make the difficult choice.” Her eyes almost glowed. “That is the price of power, Cursor.”

Amara looked away from Lady Aquitaine and stared at the prisoner.

“I’ll talk,” she said finally, very quietly. “I’ll cue you to show yourself to her.”

Lady Aquitaine tilted her head to one side and nodded comprehension. “Very well.”

Amara turned and went back over to the prisoner. “Rook,” she said quietly. “Or should I call you Gaelle?”

“As you would. Both names are stolen.”

“Rook will do, then,” Amara said.

“Did you forget your knife?” the prisoner said. There was no life to the taunt.

“No knife,” Amara said quietly. “Kalarus has abducted two women. You know who they are.”

Rook said nothing, but something in the quality of her silence made Amara think that she did.

“I want to know where they have been taken,” Amara said. “I want to know what security precautions are around them. I want to know how to free them and escape with them again.”

A short breath, the bare specter of a laugh, escaped Rook’s lips.

“Are you willing to tell me?” Amara asked.

Rook stared at her in silent scorn.

“I see,” Amara said. She beckoned with one hand. “In that case, I’m going to leave.”

Lady Aquitaine-and not Lady Aquitaine-stepped into the light of the circle of fire. Her form had changed, growing shorter, stockier, so that the dress she wore fit her badly. Her features had changed, skin and face and hair, to the perfect mirror of Rook’s own face and body alike.

Rook’s head snapped up. Her tortured face twisted into an expression of horror.

“I’ll go for a walk outside,” Amara continued in a quiet, remorseless voice. “Out in public. With her. Where everyone in the city might see. Where anyone Kalarus has watching will see us together.”

Rook’s face writhed between terror and agony, and she stared at Lady Aquitaine as if physically unable to remove her gaze. “No. Oh furies, no. Kill me. Just end it.”

“Why?” Amara asked. “Why should I?”

“If I am dead, she will be nothing to him. He might only cast her out.” Her voice dissolved into a ragged sob as she began to weep again. “She’s only five. Please, she’s only a little girl.”

Amara took a deep breath. “What is her name, Rook?”

The woman suddenly sagged in the chains, wracked with broken, harsh sobs. “Masha,” she grated. “Masha.”

She pressed closer, seizing Rook by the hair and forcing her to lift her face, though the woman’s eyes were now swollen, mostly closed. “Where is the child?”

“Kalare,” sobbed the spy. “He keeps her next to his chambers. To remind me what he can do.”

Amara steeled herself not to falter, and her voice rang on the stone walls. “Is that where they’ve taken the prisoners?”

Rook shook her head, but the gesture was a feeble one, an obvious lie. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Amara held the spy’s eyes and willed resolve into her own. “Do you know where they are? Do you know how I can get to them?”

Silence fell, but for Rook’s broken sounds of grief and pain. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I know. But I can’t tell you. If you rescue them, he’ll kill her.” She shuddered. “Countess, please, it’s her only chance. Kill me here. I can’t fail her.”

Amara released Rook’s hair and stepped back from the prisoner. She felt sick. “Bernard,” she said quietly, nodding at a bucket in the corner. “Give her some water.”