Tavi wriggled and struggled to get out from under Fade, but only managed to free his head enough to crane his neck over the man and to see what had frightened him.
Around them stood a silent half-circle of Marat warriors, unmistakable with their pale braids and powerful bodies clad, even in this vicious weather, only in a brief cloth at the hips. Each of them stood very tall and more broad in the shoulders than Tavi could easily believe, with dark, serious eyes the same shade as the chipped stone tipping their broad-hafted spears.
Without expression, the tallest of the Marat stepped closer. He put his foot on Tavi's shoulder and rested the tip of his spear against the hollow of Tavi's throat.
Chapter 22
Fidelias twisted himself up and out of the chilling waters of the angry river, frozen fingers clutching hard against the branch of the tree he had crafted within his reach. He felt numb, and his heart labored painfully against the shock of the cold water. The cold beckoned him with a slow, seductive caress, encouraging him to simply sink into the waters, relax, let his troubles slip away into the darkness.
Instead, he secured a hold on the next higher branch and hauled his body up out of the water. He huddled there for a few moments, shaking, struggling to gather his wits about him again, while the furystorm raged around him, winds hauling at his sodden clothes.
The one good thing about the flood, he decided, about the freezing water, was that he could no longer feel the cuts on his feet. He'd done his best to ignore them while recovering the horses, but the rocks and brush had been merciless to his skin. The woman, the watercrafter, had been onto them from the beginning, he decided. Clever, getting his shoes like that. She'd been planning on the boy running, and on hampering pursuit.
Fidelias leaned against the trunk and waited for the waters to subside.
They did, in rapid order, proving more than anything else that the flood had been a deliberate crafting rather than a natural event. He shook his head. Odiana should have given them warning-but perhaps she had been overmatched. The locals were no amateurs at their furycrafting and had lived with the local furies for years. They would know them, be able to use them more effectively than even a crafter of Fidelias's own level of skill. The Steadholder, for example-he had been formidable. In a direct, fair confrontation, Fidelias was uncertain whether or not he could simply overcome the man. Best then, to ensure that any future contact with the fellow discounted the possibility of a fair fight.
But then, that was in general Fidelias's policy.
Once the waters had receded back down into the river's original bed, Fidelias slipped down from the tree, grimacing as he got back to the ground. The pitch of the winds had only increased since the storm had rolled over them, and surviving in it had to be his first priority. He knelt by the trunk of the tree, resting a hand lightly on the sodden ground, reaching out for Vamma.
The fury responded to him at once, vanishing into the deep earth for several moments before rising back up toward him. Fidelias cupped his hands, and Vamma returned, providing what it had been sent to retrieve-a handful of salt crystals and a flint.
Fidelias pocketed the flint and swept the salt into a pouch, keeping a few pieces in hand. Then he rose, noting how slowly his body responded, and shook his head, shivering. The cold could kill him, if he didn't get warmed up, and quickly. Rising, he dispatched Etan to look for signs of his companions, and Vamma to search through the surrounding earth, for signs of movement. If the locals, either the Bernardholters or those they had been fighting, were still at hand, they might feel few compunctions about finishing the job the watercrafter had started.
Fidelias had to hurl salt at a swooping windmane, while he waited for his furies to return to him. It didn't take long. Etan appeared within a few moments and led him forward, through the blinding storm, down along the path of the river.
Several hundred yards downstream, Fidelias found Aldrick. The swordsman lay on the ground, unmoving, his fingers still locked around the hilt of his sword, buried to its hilts in the trunk of a tree. He had apparently managed to keep the flood from sweeping him away entirely, but had not taken