"That was the idea," Tavi said, his tone apologetic. "I'm sorry, but it looked like you were about to collapse."

The slave's mouth quirked to one side. "Perhaps," she acknowledged. She scooped more of the mud off of him. "Very clever-and very brave. Are you hurt?"

Tavi shook his head, shivering uncontrollably. "Sore. Tired. And cold."

She nodded, her expression worried, and smoothed more muck from his forehead. "All the same, thank you."

He struggled to give her a small smile. "There's no reason to thank me. I'm Tavi of Bernardholt."

The girl's fingers went to the collar at her throat, and she frowned, lowering her eyes. "Amara."

"Where are you from, Amara?"

"Nowhere," the girl said. She looked up, sweeping her eyes around the inside of the magnificent chamber. "What is this place?"

"P-princeps' Memorium," Tavi stuttered, shivering. "This is the mound on the Field of Tears. The Princeps died here, fighting the Marat, before I was born."

Amara nodded, still frowning. She rubbed her hands together roughly and then laid her wrist over Tavi's forehead. "You're burning up."

Tavi closed his eyes and found them too heavy to open again. An odd prickling ran over his skin, slowly replacing the bitter, aching chill of the mud. "The First Lord himself made this place, they say. Made it in one day. When they buried everyone. The Crown Legion. The Marat didn't leave enough of the Princeps' body for a state funeral. They did it here, instead of taking him back to the capital."

The slave took his hand and urged him to his feet, though she, too, shook with cold. He let her, struggling to stand through the heavy, sweet lethargy in his limbs. He latched onto the words he was speaking, using them to hold on to consciousness. "Strong furies here. The Crown's furies. It was said they would have to be strong to keep the shades of all the soldiers

at ease. Couldn't take them home. Too many dead bodies. Strong furies would protect us. Stone mound. Earth against air. Shelter."

"You were right," Amara said. She eased him back to the floor again, and he sank gratefully back against a wall. He could feel a distant heat, through the tingling in his body, something wonderful and soothing. She must have taken him over to one of the fires.

"All my fault," Tavi mumbled. "I didn't bring Dodger in. My uncle. The Marat are here."

There was a startled silence. Then she said, "What'? Tavi, what are you talking about? What about the Marat?"

He struggled to say more, to answer the slave's question, to warn her. But the words became a jumble on his tongue and within his mind. He tried to force them out and found himself shaking too hard to get them out clearly. Amara said something to him, but it didn't make any sense, random sounds jumbled together. He felt her hands on him, then, scooping the half-frozen muck off of him and rubbing roughly at his limbs, but it felt very distant, somehow, very unimportant.

His head fell forward. It became a labor even to draw breath.

Blackness fell over him, dark and silent and complete.

Chapter 11

Isana's heart twisted in her chest, and her throat tightened. "No," she whispered. "No. My brother isn't-he's not gone. He can't be."

Old Bitte looked down. "His heart. His breathing. They've both stopped. He just lost too much blood, child. He's gone."

Stunned silence fell on the hall.

"No," Isana said. She felt dizzy, stunned, and she had to close her eyes. "No. Bernard." The enormity of that simple finality, of death, fell on her like a mile of chains. Bernard was her only living family, and she had been close to him since before she could clearly remember. She could not picture a world without her brother in it. There had to be something she could do.

Surely, something. She had been so close to securing the help she needed. If Kord and his sons hadn't been interfering, if they had only kept to themselves, there would have been two skilled watercrafters attending to Bernard before she was even awakened.

Let the crows take Kord and his murderous little family, Isana thought viciously. What right did he have to jeopardize the lives of others in order to protect his own position? Bernard could have been cared for. He could have lived.

She needed Bernard. The steadholt needed him. Tavi needed him.

Tavi. If anyone could find Tavi now, if anyone could help him, it was her brother. She had to have his help. She had to have him beside her. Without him, Tavi could be gone forever. He, too, could-

"No," Isana said aloud. She took a breath, steeling herself. She could not let Kord's viciousness kill her brother and Tavi all in one moment. She lifted her head and focused on Old Bitte. "No, this isn't over. Get him into the tub."

Bitte looked up at Isana, her expression startled. "What?"

"Get him into the tub," Isana said. She started rolling up her sleeves in brisk, short motions. "Otto, Roth, get over here and prepare your furies."

"Isana," Bitte hissed. "Child, you cannot do this."

"She can," said Otto, his voice quiet, his pate gleaming in the light of the fire. "It's been done before. When I was young, just taking my own chain, Harald the Younger's boy fell through the ice and into the mill pond. He was under for nearly thirty minutes before we could get him back up through it, and he lived."

"Lived," spat Bitte. "He sat in a chair drooling and never speaking again until fevers took him. Would you do that to Bernard as well?"

Roth grimaced and put a frail hand on Otto's shoulder. "She's right. Even if we bring his body back, his mind might not come along with it."

Isana stood and faced the two men. "I need him," she said. "Tavi is out in the storm. I have no time to discuss the matter. You were willing to help me a moment ago. Now do it or get out of my way."

"We'll help," Otto offered at once.

Roth let out a slow breath, his expression reluctant. "Aye," he agreed. "Furies willing, the attempt won't kill you."

"I'm touched by your enthusiasm." Isana stalked to the copper tub. Several of the holders, under Bitte's direction, lowered Bernard's limp form into the tub. The water stained pink, blood swirling languidly out from the

wound in his thigh. "Get the bandage off," she instructed. "It won't matter now, one way or the other."

She knelt down by the head of the tub, reaching out to rest her fingers against Bernard's temples. "Rill," she whispered, reaching a hand down to touch the water, briefly. "Rill, I need you." She felt the water swirl, slowly, as Rill entered the tub. She could feel the fury's reluctance, its motions vague and unsure-no, not Rill's reluctance, but her own weariness. As tired as Isana was, doubtless Rill could not hear her clearly, could not respond to her as well as the fury usually might. In a moment more, that would not be an issue.

"Immi," Otto whispered. Isana felt the portly Steadholder rest his hand on her shoulder, warm fingers tightening slightly in support. The waters stirred beneath her fingers anew, as the second fury entered the tub, a much smaller, more active presence than Rill's.

Roth put his hand on her opposite shoulder. "Almia." Once again, the water stirred with a stronger, more confident presence, the older Stead-holder's fury carrying with it a sense of fluid strength.

Isana took a deep breath, focusing through her weariness and her fear and her anger. She pushed her wild concern for Tavi from her thoughts, her uncertainty that she could help her brother. She cleared everything away but her sense, through Rill, of the water in the tub and of the body it surrounded.

There was a certain feel to a body submerged in water, a kind of delicate vibration spreading out from the skin. Isana willed Rill to surround Bernard, so that she could feel for that fragile energy around him, the tremors of life. For a terrible moment, the waters were still and she could sense nothing.