ruthless and bloodthirsty dictator Alera had ever known. The furies knew, he had tried everything in his power to convince Gaius to take another path.
Fidelias had been forced to this.
It was necessary.
It had to be done.
His stomach burned as the glowing furylights of Aquitaine appeared on the horizon.
"Wake up," he murmured. "We're almost there."
Aldrick opened his eyes and focused on Fidelias. One hand absently caressed Odiana's dark wealth of hair, and she let out a pleased little whimper in her sleep, writhing in the man's lap with liquid sensuality, before settling into stillness again. The swordsman watched Fidelias, his expression unreadable.
"Deep thoughts, old man?" Aldrick asked.
"Some. How will Aquitaine react?"
The big man pursed his lips. "It depends."
"On what?"
"On what he is doing when we interrupt him with bad news."
"Is it all that bad?"
Aldrick smiled. "Just hope he's up drinking. He's usually in a pretty good mood. Tends to forget his anger by the time the hangover has worn off."
"It was an idiot's plan to begin with."
"Of course. It was his. He isn't a planner of deception or subterfuge. But I've never met a man who could lead as strongly as he does. Or anyone with his raw power." Aldrick continued stroking the sleeping water witch's hair, his expression thoughtful. "Are you worried?"
"No," Fidelias lied. "I'm still too valuable to him."
"Perhaps, for now." Aldrick said. He smiled, a mirthless expression. "But I'll not be loaning you any money."
Fidelias clucked his teeth. "Direct action would have been premature in any case. By escaping, the girl may have done his Grace the biggest favor of his life."
"I don't doubt it," Aldrick murmured. "But somehow, I'm almost certain that he won't see it that way."
Fidelias studied the other man's face, but the swordsman's features revealed nothing. His grey eyes blinked lazily, and his mouth curled into a smile, as though taking amusement in Fidelias's lack of ability to gauge him. The Cursor frowned at the man, a mild expression, and turned to watch the city of Aquitaine come into sight.
First came the lights. Firecrafters by the dozens maintained the lights along the city's streets, and they burned with a gentle radiance through the mist-shrouded evening, all soft yellows, deep amber, pale crimson, until the hill upon which the city was built seemed itself to be one enormous, living flame, garbed in warmth and flickering color. Upon the city's walls, and just beyond them, lights burned with a cold, blue brilliance, casting the ground far around into stark illumination and long black shadows, their harsh glare vigilant against any would-be invaders.
As the litter glided down, and closer, Fidelias could begin to make out shapes in the shifting lights. Statues stood silent and lovely on the streets. Houses, all elegant lines and high arches, contested with one another to prove the most skillfully crafted, the most beautifully lit. Fountains sparkled and flickered, some of them illuminated from below, so that they burned violet or emerald in the darkness, pools of liquid flames. Trees rose up around houses and lined the streets, thriving and beautiful life that had been crafted as carefully as every other part of the city. They, too, wore veils of colored light, and their leaves, already changed into autumn's brilliant hues, shone in too many shades to count.
The sound of a bell tolling the late hour rose to the descending litter. Fidelias heard the trod of hooves upon paving stones somewhere below and raucous singing from a night club of some kind. Music came up from a garden party as the litter passed over it, strings supporting a sweet alto flute that pursued a gentle, haunting melody. The smell of wood smoke and spices still drifted on the evening breezes, along with the scent of late-blooming flowers and of rain on the wind.
To call Aquitaine beautiful was to call the ocean wet, Fidelias thought. Accurate enough, in its way, but wholly insufficient to the task.
They were challenged by a barking voice before they had come within a long bowshot of the High Lord's manor, a walled fortress surmounting the hill upon which the city stood. Fidelias watched as a man in the sable and scarlet surcoat of Aquitaine swept down from the air above. A dozen more hovered somewhere in the night sky above them, unseen-but the Cursor could feel the eddies of wind that their furies kicked up in keeping them aloft.
The challenger of the Knights Aeris guarding the High Lord's manor exchanged a pass phrase with the captain of Fidelias's own