Fear filled her then. Not the rush of excitement or the lightning of sudden terror, but slow, cool, logical fear. She had to move to live. She could not move. Hence, she could not live.
The helpless simplicity of it was what stung, what made it real. She wanted to move, to uncurl her body, to creep closer to the fire-simple things, things she could do at any other time. But for lack of that ability now, she would die. Tears made her vision blur, but they were halfhearted, too empty of the fire of life to warm her.
Something came between her and the fire, a shape, and she felt a hand, huge and warm-blessedly warm-settle on her forehead.
"We've got to get those clothes off you," Bernard rumbled, his voice gentle. He moved closer to her, and she felt him lift her like a child. She tried to speak to him, to help him, but she could only curl and shudder and make helpless grunting sounds.
"I know," he rumbled. "Just relax." He had to struggle to get the shirts off, though not much-they were so large on her. The clothes came away like layers of frozen mud, until she wore only her underclothes. Her limbs seemed shrunken and wrinkled to her. Her fingers were swollen.
Bernard laid her down again, close to the fire, and its heat flowed over her, easing the cramped tension in her muscles, slowly lessening the pain that had come with it. Her breathing began to be something she could control, and she slowed her breaths, though she still shivered.
"Here," Bernard said. "I got it wet, but I've been drying it out since we got the fire going." He lifted her, and a moment later settled a shirt, a little
damp but warm with the heat of the fire, over her. He didn't bother to slip the sleeves on, just wrapped her in it like a blanket, and she huddled under it, grateful.
Amara opened her eyes and looked up at him. She lay curled on her side. He sat on his legs, holding his own hands out to the fire, and was naked above the waist. Firelight played over dark hairs on his chest, over the heavy muscle of his frame, and made soft lines of several old scars. Blood had dried in a line on his lip, where a blow from the other Steadholder had apparently split it, and his cheek had already darkened with a bruise, reflected by others on his ribs and belly.
"Y-you came after me," she said, moments later. "You pulled me out of the water."
He looked over at her, then back at the fire. He nodded once. "It was the least I could do. You stopped that man."
"Only for a few seconds," she said. "I couldn't have stood up to him for long. He's a swordsman. A good one. If the river hadn't flooded when it did-"
Bernard waved his hand and shook his head. "Not that one. The one who shot the arrow at Tavi. You saved my nephew's life." He looked down at her and said, quietly, "Thank you."
She felt her cheeks color, and she looked down. "Oh. You're welcome." After a moment she said, "Aren't you cold?"
"Some," he admitted. He nodded toward where several articles of clothing were spread on stones near the fire. "Brutus is trying to spread some heat into the stones beneath them, but he doesn't really understand heat too well. They'll dry in a while."
"Brutus?" Amara asked.
"My fury. The hound you saw."
"Oh," she said. "Here. Let me." Amara closed her eyes and murmured to Cirrus. The air around the fire stirred sluggishly, and then the smoke and shimmering waves of warmth tilted, moved toward the clothing. Amara opened her eyes to inspect Cirrus's work, and nodded. "They should dry a little faster, now."
"Thank you," Bernard said. He folded his arms, suppressing a shiver of his own. "You knew the men after Tavi."
"There was another, too. A watercrafter. Your sister threw her out of the river."
Bernard snorted, a smile touching his face. "She would. I never saw that one."
"I know them," Amara said. She told him, in brief, about Fidelias and the mercenaries and her fears for the Valley.
"Politics." Bernard spat into the fire. "I took a steadholt out here because I didn't want anything to do with the High Lords. Or the First Lord, either."