Furies of Calderon (59 page)

“He didn’t want to take advantage of you,” Bernard suggested. At Amara’s flustered silence, he said, “I can appreciate that in a man.”

“He’s good,” she said. “I mean, skilled. One of the Crown’s best. He’s got more missions on record than any Cursor alive, and there are rumors of many more that were never recorded. Some of the things he’s done are in textbooks. He’s saved the lives of thousands of people who never even knew he was there.” She swallowed. “And if you’d asked me a week ago, I would never have dreamed that there could be a man more loyal to the Realm.” She heard her voice grow bitter again. “A patriot.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Bernard said, pensive.

Amara frowned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s two kinds of bad men in the world. I mean, there’s all kinds of ways for a man to go bad, but when you get right down to it, there’s only about two kinds of men who will hurt others with forethought. Premeditation. Men that don’t figure there’s anyone else alive who matters but them. And men who figure that there’s something that matters more than anyone’s life. Even their own.” He shook his head. “First one is common enough. Petty, small. They’re everywhere. People who just don’t give a scorched crow about anyone else. Mostly, the bad they do doesn’t amount to much.

“The second kind is like your
patriserus
. People who hold something dear above their own lives, above anyone else’s. They’ll fight to protect it and kill to protect it, and the whole time they’ll be thinking to themselves that it has to be done. That it’s the right thing to do.” Bernard glanced up at her and said, “Dangerous those. Very dangerous.”

“It all comes down to people. You can’t have a realm or an ideal without people to believe in it. Support it. The realm exists to protect people. Seems kind of backward to me to sacrifice people to protect it.”

“It’s just not that simple, Stead-holder.”

“Isn’t it? Remember who taught you,” Bernard said, his voice gentle, the words clear, firm. “Right now, he’s out there and he probably thinks he’s doing the only thing he can. Crows, he probably thinks he’s doing the right thing. That he’s in a position to know when others don’t, and so its his choice to make and no one else’s.”

She pushed her hair back from her face. “How do I know that he hasn’t made the right one?”

Bernard stood up and moved toward her. He put a hand on her shoulder, eyes earnest. “Because a sound tree doesn’t have bad roots, Amara. No enterprise of greatness begins with treachery, with lying to the people who trust and love you.”

Tears did burn her eyes this time, and she closed them for a moment. He tugged her a bit toward him, and she leaned against his warmth for a moment, his strength. “I don’t know what else to do,” she told him. “I’ve done everything I can think of to try to avert what’s coming. It hasn’t been enough.” And Gaius had counted on her. Had entrusted her with this mission.

“Sometimes,” Bernard rumbled, “the only smart thing to do is nothing. Sometimes you just have to be still and see how events begin to unfold before you move. Be patient.”

She shook her head. “There isn’t time for that,” she insisted. “We have to get someone down here. You have to make them listen to me or—”

Bernard put both large hands on her shoulders, gripped her lightly, and pressed her shoulders against the heavy wood of the door. Then he leaned his weight against her, trapping her there, and lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss that managed to be abrupt and relaxed all at the same time.

Amara felt her eyes widen in surprise. His mouth was soft, warm, and she felt a surge of outrage. Did he think she was some vapid, chattering child to be distracted with a kiss, like a twittering schoolgirl?

Granted, his warmth, his closeness, were very comforting. Granted, the gentle power of his hands and body was something that felt compelling, reassuring, and intimidating all at once. And granted that the scent of him, leather and the wind outdoors and something indescribably, utterly masculine, was something she felt she could take off her clothes and roll about naked in.

She lifted her hands to shove him away from her, but found her palms just resting on the heavy muscle of his chest, taking the measure of his strength, his heat, while her mouth turned farther up to his, her lips parting, pressing against his, exploring and tasting him.

He let out a small, hungry sound, pressing closer to her, his body to hers, and her heart raced. She was still annoyed with him. Of course. And she had a job to do. And regardless of how nice he might smell, or feel, or how her body responded so quickly to his—

“No? Where did you plan to go?” He bent his head and placed a soft kiss upon the side of her throat, mouth warm. His tongue fluttered over her skin, and lightning raced out through her limbs in response, yearning more fierce than anything she had felt before. She felt her body melt against his, though she didn’t really mean for it to.

She grasped at his hair and dragged his mouth back up to hers, sudden and hungry, kissing him, pressing back against him with a kind of defiant abandon, her hands sliding over his chest, arms, shoulders. Then she shoved against the wall with her hips, pushing him away from it, her body still close to his. She kept him going, back to the pallet, until it hit the back of his knees and he dropped down onto it.

She never lifted her mouth from his, following him, settling astride his hips as he sat down. His hands settled on her waist, huge and strong, and her hunger doubled on itself, sudden irrational desire to feel those hands on her thighs, her back, her throat, everywhere.

“This is just a kiss,” she whispered, against his mouth, lips too hungry to touch his to spare much time for words. “That’s all. Just a kiss.” She followed her urges, trailing a line of kisses down over his jaw to the softer skin of his throat, the beginning of the slope of one shoulder, biting at his skin.

“That’s all,” he agreed, though there was a groan hidden inside the words. His hands tightened on her waist, sliding down to her hips.

Amara drew up sharply as her hips pressed against his, focusing on his face, struggling to clear her thoughts. But it was hard—it would be so much easier to get rid of her clothing, his, naked skin between them was what she wanted. She wanted to feel his weight pinning her down, feel the hot strength of him pushing into her, to struggle and test her strength against his, and to be overcome. It was a fire inside of her, a raw and primitive
need
, something that could not be denied. With a snarl of pure, animal hunger, she started tearing at his belt.

“Wait,” Bernard said. “Oh, oh
crows
, Brutus you
idiot
.” He moved beneath her, abruptly, lifting her and dropping her unceremoniously on the pallet. She landed with a thump.

Bernard took a pair of swift steps away from her and held up his hand, palm toward her, motioning her to stop. He frowned in concentration and muttered, “No. Brutus,
down
.”

And Amara abruptly found herself staring at Bernard from the pallet, cold and hungry and panting, body aching with fading need, her clothing disheveled, her hair mussed, her lips swollen from the heat and intensity of the kisses.

She lifted a hand to her temple. “Y-you… you crafted on me.”

“I know,” Bernard said, his face flushing bright red. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“You
earth-crafted
me.”

“I’m sorry,” Bernard said again, quickly. “Brutus is… my fury is a strong one, and he starts to thinking he knows what’s good for me better than I do sometimes.” Bernard sank down against the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was doing it, or I would have never. I mean, I—” He shook his head. After a moment he said, “It’s been a long time. And Brutus just… wanted to make something happen.”

She stared at him for a long moment, settling onto the pallet, getting her breathing, her feelings back under control. She gathered her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring down at her shoes, the slippers Isana had put on her feet at Bernard-holt.

“You were married,” she said, quietly.

“Ten years ago,” Benard said, the words quiet, soft, as though they were burrs that would tear at his mouth if he sent them out too quickly. “She died. Blight. My daughters, too.”

“And you haven’t…” She let it hang unspoken.

He shook his head. “Been busy. Haven’t really wanted to be close to anyone until—” he drew in a breath. “Until you kissed me last night. Guess it stirred up some things.”

Amara couldn’t keep the wry tone from her voice. “I guess it did.”

Bernard flushed further and didn’t lift his eyes.

She let out a tired laugh. “Bernard. It’s all right. You didn’t hurt me.” And she’d enjoyed it. Wanted it. She had to work to keep from blushing herself. Just the memory of the molten need of that kiss was enough to make her shiver.

“Doesn’t make it right.” He looked up at her, his eyes worried and, she thought, exquisitely vulnerable, exposing how much he cared about what she would think. “You sure you’re all right?”

She nodded. “Well. The obvious parts of being locked up aside.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about it too much longer. That’s why I wanted to steal a kiss. I didn’t mean that to happen, but I wanted a chance to kiss you before.”

“Change of the watch,” Bernard said. “If Pluvus follows the regulations, he’ll go to his bed and appoint one of his senior centurions as the watch commander.”

“All right,” Amara said “What does that do for us?”

“It gets us a chance to talk to someone I know,” Bernard said He rose, head tilted as he listened, and only a moment later the heavy door at the top of the cellar stairs rattled and banged open Amara felt her heart race again. “Will they let us out?”

She felt her mouth creep up at the edges and fought the smile. Then gave in to it, looking up at him, and rose onto her toes to plant a kiss on the roughness of his cheek. He glanced down at her, his gaze, for just a moment, showing that heated hunger that she had felt in his kiss. “Sometime, I think I’m going to get you alone when there isn’t some kind of life threatening situation to interrupt me.”

Amara’s tongue promptly stuck to the roof of her mouth, which had as abruptly gone dry. She tried to gather up enough of her suddenly scattered wits to respond, but the sound of heavy boots on the stairs came first, and a key rattled in the door. The door opened, and Pluvus Pentius faced them with a vacuous expression. Or rather, that was Amara’s first impression. The truthfinder’s head lolled forward on his neck, and a moment later he let out a distinct snore. The door opened farther, and Amara saw two men on either side of the snoozing truthfinder, supporting his limp weight. One she recognized, the grizzled old healer from earlier in the day. The other wore a centurion’s breastplate and helmet, a round-faced man of middle years with dark, squinting eyes

Giraldi stared at Bernard, his mouth dropping open. “Bernard. That’s
crazy
. That couldn’t happen. Alerans helping the Marat?”

“I was half killed by a Marat warrior near Garados two days ago,” Bernard said. “Last night, a group of crafters stronger than me tried to kill my nephew, who had also seen them.”

“Tavi? Great furies, Bernard.”

“There isn’t any time. I told Gram, and he believed me. He ordered a full arming and mobilization, scouts to be sent out, messengers to Riva for reinforcements, before we were attacked by more of the same at the gates to Garrison. Has it been done?”

“I’ve ordered my full century on watch and armed, Bernard, and I’ve sent runners to the watchtowers to make sure the balefires will be lit if there’s trouble, but that’s as much as I can do on my authority.”