Princeps’ Fury

“The Marat mediator?” Aria asked.

“Doroga,” Isana called.

The Marat lifted a broad hand. “Good morning,” he rumbled in reply. He seized a braided leather cord hanging from the saddle blanket that covered the gargant’s back, and swung down to earth as lightly as a boy coming down from an apple tree. “Isana and Scarred-Face,” he said, nodding to Isana and Araris. He peered at Araris, and said, “Cut your hair. You look different.”

Araris inclined his head. “Somewhat, yes. And not very.”

Doroga nodded judiciously and studied Aria for a moment. “This one I do not know.”

Isana sensed Aria stiffen, as she replied, voice cold, “My elder brother was killed at the First Battle of Calderon. He died defending Gaius Septimus from your kind.”

Isana barely stopped herself from sucking in a surprised and outraged breath through her teeth and half turned toward Aria. “Doroga is a friend-”

Doroga grunted as he held up a hand, casually interrupting Isana. He eyed Aria without excitement. “My father, three brothers, half a dozen cousins, my mother, her two sisters, and my closest friend died there as well,” he answered in a steady voice. “All of us lost the battle at the Field of Fools, lady of the cold voice.”

“So all is forgotten?” Aria spat. “Is that what you mean?”

“There is no use in chewing at old wounds.” He stepped in front of Aria, whose eyes were level with his, and met her gaze. His voice came out a low rumble, calm, steady, and not in the least bit yielding. “That battle ended more than twenty years ago. Today’s battle is fought far to the south, where many good Alerans, your own husband among them, now fight the Vord. In case you have forgotten, our purpose here is to make peace.” Doroga’s eyes flashed, and though his expression never changed, behind him the enormous dark-furred gargant suddenly let out a warning rumble that shook snowflakes from the surface of the snowbound ground around them. “Let it be, Aleran.”

The High Lady of Placida’s eyes narrowed, and Isana could clearly sense her tension and anger. She held her breath, hardly daring to add anything to an already-overstrained situation. She could hardly imagine talks progressing smoothly were Aria to roast their mediator to the ground-or, she supposed, if the enormous Marat, his nose only inches from Lady Placida’s, snapped her slender neck. Isana realized, belatedly, that in delivering his words, Doroga had closed the distance purposefully, in order to be too close to be cleanly struck by the long dueling sword Aria wore at her hip should she attempt to draw it. The Marat was no fool.

Aria’s hand twitched once toward the hilt of her blade, then she slowly moved both hands down to her thighs and smoothed her dress. She nodded once, sharply, to Doroga, the gesture in itself a kind of wordless concession, and turned to walk several paces away through the snow and stand facing the Shieldwall.

Isana stared at Aria, still surprised at the woman’s vehemence. Surely Doroga’s presence had come as no surprise to her. Had she been overwhelmed by her emotions at the sight of one of the Marat, despite herself? The High Lords and Ladies of Alera were, generally speaking, past masters of controlling their responses-yet Aria had nearly attacked Doroga outright. Isana felt certain that had he demonstrated any aggression in response, beyond simply standing up for himself in the face of a threat, violence almost certainly would have ensued.

She decided that it was most politic to simply regard the incident as over. It would also, she thought, be a fine idea to ignore the way the snow had swiftly melted away to nothing out to an arm’s length all around Aria’s feet.

She turned to Doroga, to find him frowning pensively at the High Lady as well, his dark eyes thoughtful. His gaze met hers, and she clearly sensed his puzzlement and concern. He, too, had found something odd in Aria’s reaction.

No, Isana thought. The barbarian chieftain was definitely no fool.

Isana smiled at him, and gestured toward the sun. “We stand before The One, Doroga. When will the Icemen arrive?”

Doroga leaned casually on his cudgel, and drawled, “The Gadrim-ha were here before either of us.” He called out something in a tongue she did not understand.

Isana’s eyes widened as half a dozen mounds of snow within thirty feet of them trembled, then rose into the forms of the white-furred Icemen. They simply stood, like men rising from a nap, and shook themselves, flinging fine, powdery snow from their pelts unmelted. Though none of them were as tall as Doroga, their overlong arms and overbroad shoulders carried the same suggestion of tremendous power. They bore crude weapons-axes and spears, made from wood and leather bands and stone-but Isana noted that the weapons looked far thicker and heavier than anything any but the strongest of Alerans could wield without using earthcraft.