he said, weariness in his voice, "You don't know what you're doing, girl. I don't want to see you die for it. And if I can save the lives of some noncombatants while protecting you, so much the better."
Amara closed her eyes, her head spinning. The stench of the burned corpses, of the carrion the crows had torn into, came to her again. She was a Cursor, a skilled fencer, an agent of the Crown, a decorated heroine of the Realm-but she did not want to die. It terrified her. She had seen the men the Marat had killed, and none of them had gone pleasantly. She had joked before, lightly, that she would never want to end her life in less than a viciously bloody fashion, as alive as she could possibly be, but the reality of it was different. There wasn't any consideration in it, no abstract philosophy. Just glittering, animal eyes and terror and pain.
It made sense, she reasoned. Fidelias wasn't a monster. He was a man like any other. He had cared about her, when they worked together. Almost more than her father had, in some ways. It was reasonable to assume that he did not want to see her die if he could avoid it.
And if she could save some more people, if she could lead those who would surely die away from the coming struggle, surely it would be worth it. Surely there would be no shame for her in fleeing, no dishonor before the Crown.
Or before Bernard's memory.
It wouldn't be wrong. Fidelias was giving her a way out. An escape.
"Amara," Fidelias's voice said, gently. "There isn't much time. You must go quickly, if you are to save them."
She abruptly saw the trap. Though she didn't understand it yet, though she wasn't sure exactly where it lay, she recognized what he had scattered out to blind her-raw emotions, fear, the desire to protect, the need to save her own pride. He had played on them, just as he had tried to put her into a raw, emotional state of terror and grief when he had betrayed her before.
"I must go quickly," she said, quietly. "I must go. Me. Or there's no deal." She took a breath and said, "Why would you want to make sure I was not a part of this battle, Fidelias? Why now, instead of an hour ago? Why did you make this offer only after you saw me observing the enemy?"
"Don't do this to yourself, Amara," he said. "Don't rationalize your way out of life. Don't let it kill those children."
She swallowed. He was right, of course. Perhaps she was being manipulated. Perhaps accepting his offer would mean that she had sacrificed some unknown advantage. But could she really argue against that statement? Could she make some attempt to play at maneuvers against him, here, now, when she would almost certainly die? And when it would cost the lives of children.
Run. Save them. Grieve with the Crown over the Valley's loss.
"Your purpose as a Cursor is to save lives, Amara. Stay true to your purpose. And let me stay true to my choice."
The crows croaked and swooped all around her. She opened her mouth to agree.
But a sudden sound stopped her. Without warning, the ground began to rumble, low, hard, rhythmic. She staggered and had to crouch to keep her balance. She looked back at the walls of Garrison.
A shout went up from the legionares, who immediately marched forward, away from the walls, breaking into ragged formation as the pitching of the earth made them stagger left and right. They came out to the same distance she stood at and turned to stare at the walls with her.
The walls of Garrison heaved and shuddered, like a sleeper stirring. They rippled, a slow wave rolling through the seamless grey stone. And then, with a screeching of breaking earth, they began to grow.
Amara stared at it in sudden wonder. She had never seen any such feat done on such a scale before. The walls rolled up, higher, like a wave
approaching the shore. They ground forward several paces toward the enemy, until Amara realized that they were growing thicker at the base, to support the greater height. The walls grew, and the grim grey stone began to streak with ribbons of scarlet and azure, twined within the rock, the colors of Alera proper, and then with scarlet bound with gold, the colors of the Legion's home city of Riva. The battlements grew higher,