Chapter 7

Fidelias hated flying.

He sat on the litter, facing ahead, so that the wind sliced into his eyes and blew his hair straight back from his high forehead. On the seat facing him sat Aldrick the Sword, huge and relaxed as a newly fed lion. Odiana had curled up on Aldrick's lap to doze off hours before, and the water witch's dark hair danced and played in the wind, veiling the beauty of her features. Neither one evinced any signs of discomfort at the flight, physical or otherwise.

"I hate flying," Fidelias muttered. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the wind, and leaned over the edge of the litter. A brilliant moon, looming large among a sea of stars, painted the landscape below in silver and black. Wooded hills rolled slowly beneath them, a solid darkness, broken here and there by silver-kissed clearings and winding, half-luminescent rivers.

Four of the Knights Aeris from the camp bore them through the air, one at each pole of the litter. They wore harnesses that fitted them to the litter, supporting the weight of the three people inside, while the Knights' weight, in turn, was borne by the powerful furies at their command. Another half-dozen Knights Aeris flew in a loose ring around the litter, and moonlight glittered on the steel of their arms and armor.

"Captain," Fidelias called to the lead Knight. The man glanced back over his shoulder, murmured something, and drifted back through the air toward the litter.

"Sir?"

"Will it be much longer before we arrive in Aquitaine?"

"No, sir. We should be there before the hour is out."

Fidelias blinked. "That soon? I thought you said it would take us until dawn."

The Knight shook his head, eyes cooly scanning the sky ahead. "Fortune favors us, sir. The furies of the south are stirring and have brought us a strong wind to speed our way."

The former Cursor frowned. "That's highly unusual at this season, is it not, Captain?"

The man shrugged. "It's saved us hours of flight time and made it easier on everyone. We haven't even had to spell the men bearing the litter. Relax, sir. I'll have you in the High Lord's palace before the witching hour." And with that, the soldier accelerated, moving to take position ahead of the litter again.

Fidelias frowned and resettled on his seat. He glanced over the side of the litter again, and his stomach jumped and fluttered with an irrational sensation of fear. He knew that he was as safe flying in the litter, escorted by Knights Aeris, as anywhere in the realm, but some part of his mind simply would not casually accept the vast distance between himself and the ground below. Here, he was far from wood and earth, far from the furies he could call to his service, and that disturbed him. He had to rely upon the strength of the Knights with him rather than his own. And everyone other than himself had, in time, inevitably disappointed him.

He folded his arms and bowed his head against the wind, brooding. Gaius had used him from the very beginning. Used him with a purpose, to be sure, and never carelessly. He had been far too valuable a tool to waste through misuse or neglect. Indeed, at times, the precarious peace of the entire realm had occasionally hinged upon his ability to accomplish on behalf of the Crown.

Fidelias felt his frown deepen. Gaius was old-the old wolf that led the pack-and it was nothing more than a matter of time before he was hauled down to his death. But despite that brutal, simple truth, Gaius continued to fight against the inevitable. He could have turned over power to a nominal heir a decade ago, but instead, he had held on, wily and desperate, and delayed matters for a decade by pitting the High Lords against one another in bids to see who could position his daughter or niece to marry the First Lord and give birth to the new Princeps. Gaius (with Fidelias's aid, of course) had played the lords off of one another with merciless precision, until every High Lord of Alera spent years convinced that his candidate would surely be the one to wed Gaius. His eventual choice had pleased no one, not even High Lord Parcius, Caria's father, and even the most dense of the High Lords had realized, in time, that they had been played for fools.

The game had been well played, but in the end it had all been for nothing. The House of Gaius had never been a fertile one, and even if he had proved physically capable of producing an Heir (which Fidelias remained unsure about), the First Lady had not, as yet, shown herself to be with child, and

palace rumor held that the First Lord seldom went to the same bed in which his wife slept.

Gaius was old. He was dying. The star of his House was falling from the heavens, and anyone who blindly clung to the hem of his robes would fall with him.

Like Amara.

Fidelias frowned, while something nagged at him, distracted him, burned in his belly. It was a pity, to be sure, that Amara had chosen a fool's crusade rather than making an intelligent decision. Surely, if he'd had more time, it may have proved possible to encourage her to see a more rational point of view. Now, instead, he would have to act directly against her, if she interfered again.

And he did not want to do that.

Fidelias shook his head. The girl had been his most promising student, and he had let her come to mean too much to him. He had destroyed some three score men and women in his years as a Cursor-some of them as powerful and idealistic as Amara. He had never hesitated to perform his duty, never let himself be distracted by anything so trivial as personal attachment. His love was for Alera.

And that was really the issue at hand. Fidelias served the realm, not the First Lord. Gaius was doomed. Delay of the transfer of power from Gaius's hands to another could only cause strife and bloodshed among the High Lords who would wish to assume Gaius's station. It might even come to a war of succession, something unheard of since the dawn of Aleran civilization, but which was rumored to have been commonplace in the distant past. And should that happen, not only would the sons and daughters of Alera die point-lessly, fighting one another, but the division itself would be a signal fire to the enemies of the Realm-the savage Icemen, the bestial Marat, the ruthless Canim, and who knew what else in the unexplored wilds of the world. Above all else, such weakening of the Realm's unity had to be circumvented.

And that meant establishing a strong ruler, and swiftly. Already, the High Lords quietly defied the First Lord's authority. It would only be a matter of time before the High Lords and their cities disbanded the realm into a cluster of city-nations. And if that happened, it would be simple for the enemies of mankind to quietly nibble away at those realms until nothing was left.

Fidelias grimaced, his belly burning more sharply. It had to be done, like a battlefield surgeon forced to remove a mangled limb. There was nothing

that would make it less gruesome. The best one could hope for was to get it done as swiftly and cleanly as possible.

Which led to Aquitainus. He was the most ruthless, the most able and perhaps the strongest of the High Lords.

Fidelias's stomach roiled.

He had betrayed Gaius, the Codex, the Cursors. Betrayed his student, Amara. He had turned his back on them, to support a man who might become the most 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.