Pirellus's expression changed again, to a scowl "You got yourself a title for that little display, and you think you can go where you please and order around who you like?"

Amara abruptly reversed her grip on her sword and laid it, blade gleaming, on the table beside her Then she turned to face him and walked toward him, stopping less than an arm's length away "Pirellus,' she said, keeping her voice to a low murmur "I'd rather not be here And I'd rather not pull rank on you Don't force me to push this as far as I'm willing to "

His eyes met hers, hard, stubborn "Don't threaten me, girl You've got nothing to do it with "

In answer, Amara called upon Cirrus again and struck the man with her open hand across his cheek, a ringing blow that had landed and turned his head before he could avoid it Pirellus stepped back from her, blade coming up to rest pointing at her heart in pure reflex

"Don't bother," Amara told him "If you will not do what needs to be done, I challenge you to juns macto here and now, for negligence of duty treasonous to the Realm " She turned from him and reclaimed the blade, turning back to face him "Blades I can begin when you are ready "

The commander had stopped and was staring at her intently "You're kidding me," he said "You've got to be joking You could never beat me "

"No," Amara said, 'but I'm enough of a blade to make you kill me to win You'd be killing a Cursor in the execution of her duties, Commander Whether I'm a man or woman, whether I'm right or wrong about the coming attack, you will be guilty of treason And we both know what will happen to

you." She lifted her sword and saluted him. "So. If you are willing to throw your life away, please, call the duel and let us be about it. Or get dressed and make ready to defend Garrison. But one way or another, you will hurry, Commander, because I have no time to coddle your ego."

She faced him across the space of a pair of long steps, her blade held up, and did not blink at him. Her heart raced in her throat, and she felt a drop of sweat slide down her jaw to her neck. Pirellus was a master metal-crafter, one of the finest swordsmen alive. If he chose to engage in the duel, he could kill her, and there would be little she could do to stop him. And yet it was necessary. Necessary to convince him of her sincerity, necessary for him to know that she was willing to die to get him to act, that she would sooner die than fail in her duty to Alera, to Gaius. She stared at his eyes and focused on the task before her and refused to give in to her fear or to let it make the sword tremble at all.

Pirellus stared at her for a moment, his expression dark, pensive.

Amara held her breath.

The Knight straightened, slowly, from his casual slouch. He laid the flat of his blade across his forearm, holding it in one hand, and bowed to her, the motion graceful, angrily precise. "Countess," he said, "in the interests of preserving the safety of this garrison, I will do as you command me. But I will make a note of it in my report that I do so under protest."

"So long as you do it," Amara said. Relief spun in her head, and she nearly sat down on the floor. "You'll see to the preparations, then?"

"Yes, Your Ladyship," Pirellus said, his words exquisitely barbed and courteous. "I think I can take care of things. Otto, let's get something into the men besides tea. Wake everyone up. Camdon, lass, fetch me my clothes and armor." One of the men at the draughts table and the collared dancer went running.

Amara withdrew from the room and out into the town again, sheathing her sword and taking deep breaths. It was only moments later that she heard a tightly focused roar of wind and looked up to see a pair of half-dressed Knights Aeris hurtle into the night sky on different headings, bound for Riva, she had no doubt.

She had done it. Finally, Garrison was readying itself for battle. Troops started assembling in the square at the center of town. Furylights glowed. Centurians barked orders, and a drummer began playing fall in. Dogs barked, and wives and children appeared from some of the other buildings,

even as other soldiers were dispatched to wake those in the outbuildings and to draw them into the protection of the town's walls.

It was in the hands of the soldiers now, Amara thought. Her part was done. She had been the eyes of the Crown, its hands, giving warning to Alera's defenders. Surely that would be enough. She found a shadow against one of the heavy walls of the town and leaned back against it, letting her head fall back against the stone. Her body sagged with sudden exhaustion, relief hitting her like a hard liquor, making her feel heavy and tired. So very tired.

She looked up at the stars, now and then visible through the pale clouds overhead, and found herself vaguely surprised that no tears fell. She was too tired to cry.

Drums rolled, and trumpets sounded out orders, different brazen tones calling to separate centuries and maniples of the Legion. Men began to line the walls, while others drew water in preparation for fighting fires. Watercrafters, both Legion Healers, like Harger, and homeskilled wives and daughters of the legionares made their way to the covered shelters inside the walls, where tubs of water were filled and held in preparation to receive the wounded. Firecrafters tended to blazes on the walls, while windcrafters of the Knights at Garrison took to the air above, flying in patrol to warn and ward any surprise attack from the darkened night skies. Earthcrafters manned stations at the gates and walls, their weapons nearby, but their bare hands resting on the stone of the defenses, calling on their furies to imbue them with greater obdurate strength.

The wind began to blow from the north, bringing to Amara the scent of the distant Sea of Ice and of men and of steel. For a time, as distant light began to brush against the eastern horizon, all was silent. Tense anticipation settled over those inside the walls. In one of the barracks buildings, emptied now of men and filled with the children from the outbuildings and the town, children sang a lullaby together, the sound of it sweet and gentle.

Amara pushed away from her darkened patch of wall and paced forward, toward the gates that faced out into the Marat lands beyond Garrison. The guards at the base of the walls stopped her, but Centurion Giraldi saw her and waved her past them. She mounted a ladder that led up to the battlements above the gate, where archers and firecrafters had gathered the most thickly, prepared to rain death down on anyone attempting to storm the gates of the town.

Giraldi stood beside Pirellus, now decked out in armor of gleaming steel. The Parcian swordsman glanced at her and then out at the darkness. "There's been no sign," he said. "No balefires lit by the watchtowers."

Giraldi said quietly, "One of my men saw something earlier. A scout went to look."

Amara swallowed. "Has he come back?"

"Not yet, Lady," Giraldi said, his expression worried. "Not yet."

"Quiet," said one of the legionares abruptly, a lanky young man with large ears. He leaned out, one hand lifting to his ear, and Cirrus stirred gently against Amara, telling her of the windcrafting the young man was working to listen.

"A horse," he said. "A horseman."

"Lights," said Pirellus, and the command echoed down the walls. One by one, furylamps, brilliant and blue and cold lit along the walls, casting a glare out onto the predawn darkness beyond.

For a long moment, nothing moved on the snow. And then they could all hear it, the sound of galloping hoof beats. Seconds later, Bernard plunged into the light atop a hard-ridden grey, with foam on its withers and blood on its flanks, torn flaps of skin hanging from the terrified beast where something had raked at it. Even as Bernard rode closer, the horse bucked and screamed, and Amara could scarcely understand how the Steadholder kept his seat and kept the animal streaking toward Garrison.