Princeps' Fury
EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE
All things pass in time. We are far less significant than we imagine ourselves to be. All that we are, all that we have wrought, is but a shadow, no matter how durable it may seem. One day, when the last man has breathed his last breath, the sun will shine, the mountains will stand, the rain will fall, the streams will whisper-and they will not miss him.
-FROM THE FINAL JOURNAL ENTRY OF GAIUS SEXTUS, FIRST LORD OF ALERA
The air around the former capital was too hot and too laden with fumes to overfly, Amara thought numbly. She would have to lead their party of rescued Knights and Citizens around it.
She turned course to circle the flaming wasteland, following its eastern edge as they proceeded north. Alera Imperia, the shining white city upon a hill, was only a gaping hole in the ground. Smoke and flame seethed in that cauldron, far below them. The river Gaul poured into it, and steam obscured the land below from time to time in its own layer of thick white mist that lay over the ground like a filmy funerary shroud.
Amara glided in close to the lead wind coach, opened the door, and slipped inside. She sat quietly for a moment, her head bowed.
"Bloody crows," Gram breathed, looking down. "Did the Vord do that?"
"No," Bernard said. Amara felt him take her hand in his and squeeze gently. "No. I've seen something like this before. At Kalare."
"Gaius," Gram whispered. He shook his head, then bowed it. "That arrogant old..." His voice cracked, and he broke off his sentence.
"Do you think the horde was there?" Amara asked her husband.
"Absolutely. They weren't shy about leaving a trail. You could see it from up here."
"Then Gaius defeated them," Gram said.
Amara shook her head. "No. I don't think so." She lifted her head and looked out the window at the destruction. "He would never do... this, unless the city was all but taken in any case."
"The Vord won," Bernard rumbled nodding. "But he made them pay for it."
"Where would survivors of the battle go, Bernard?" she asked.
"Survive? That?" Gram asked.
Amara gave him a steady look and turned back to Bernard.
Her husband took a deep breath, thinking. "They'd take the causeway north, into the Redhill Heights, until they reached the crossroads. From there, they could turn east toward Aquitaine or northeast to Riva."
The crossroads, then, would be the natural rendezvous point for anyone in the region who was fleeing the Vord-ridden south.
She nodded to her husband and stepped out of the coach, once again willing Cirrus to bear up her weight. Then she signaled to the other fliers in their group to follow her, and took the point position again, to lead her own band of survivors north.
Within half an hour, a hundred Knights Aeris plunged down upon them in a swirling mass of cold air, from such an altitude that their armor was coated with frost. The lead Knight-no, Amara corrected herself, the Placidan Lord who was obviously in command of the unit, flashed her an angry signal, to which she knew no countersign. Shouting at one another amidst so many roaring windstreams would have been an exercise in futility, so instead she simply lifted her head to bare her uncollared throat and lifted her hands into the air. The Placidan scowled at her, but flashed a standard signal at her to land, then signaled a hover, and spun his finger to encompass the rest of her group. She nodded, signaling her own folk to remain in place, and descended toward the ground with the Placidan Lord.
They landed on the causeway, and the lord never took his eyes off her the whole way down. He stopped ten feet from her and faced her silently, one hand on his sword.
"No," Amara told him tiredly. "I haven't been taken."
The man seemed to relax, at least by a fraction. "You understand, of course, that security is a priority."
"Of course," Amara said. "I'm sorry, sir. I recognize that you are of the Placidan Citizenry, but I can't remember your name."
The lord, who looked about Amara's age, but who could have been twenty years older, if he had watercrafting enough, gave her a tired smile. He needed a shave. "Crows, lady. I can barely remember it myself. Marius Quintias, at your service."
"Quintias," Amara said, bowing slightly. "I am Countess Calderonus Amara. The people with me are the Knights and Citizens my husband and I rescued from the Vord. They're tired, cold, and hungry. Is there a haven for them nearby?"
"Aye," he said, nodding as he swept his gaze around. There was a faint, but undeniable note of pride in his voice. "For the moment, at least."
For the first time, Amara looked at her surroundings.
A battle had been fought there, on the causeway beneath the Redhill Heights. The earth was torn with furycraft and the tread of thousands of feet. Black patches marked where firecrafting had scorched the ground. Broken weapons lay strewn about the ground, here and there, along with spent arrows, broken shields, and cloven helms.
And there were dead Vord.
There were thousands upon thousands of dead Vord. They carpeted the earth for hundreds of yards behind her.
"I wouldn't go walking this countryside alone for the time being, Countess," Quintias said. "But if you'll come to the camp, you can sleep safe, at least, once your people have cleared inspection."
"Inspection?" Amara asked.
"No one comes into the camp unless we're sure that they aren't taken or working with the Vord, lady," Quintias said without rancor. "We've had taken trying to slip in and cause trouble since about an hour after the battle."
"I see," she said quietly. "It's imperative, sir, that I speak to the First Lord at once. I have information he will need."
Quintias nodded sharply. "Then let's get moving."
They took to the air again, and Quintias and a dozen of his Knights escorted them ahead, flying low and slow, the effort laborious. They would be exhausted when they landed-which was, she suspected, the point. If they had been intent on causing mischief, their fliers, at least would be in no condition to do so.
It took them little time to reach the camp-a camp set up behind the interlocked palisades of no fewer than nine Aleran Legions. Half a dozen of them were flying the blue-and-white banners of Antillus, which was, Amara would have sworn, an obvious impossibility.
Beyond the neat white tents of the Legion camps was a small sea of humanity numbering in the tens of thousands if not the hundreds. Armored legionares of one of the Placidan Legions were waiting, and Legion healers were coming forward to help (and presumably to verify the humanity of) the most recent arrivals.
Quintias beckoned Amara, and she followed him through the Placidan camp, to a single Legion camp standing behind the front line. The red-and-blue banners of the First Lord flew over it, and she found herself hurrying her steps as she passed through the Crown Legion's camp, toward its commander's tent. It was awash in activity, with couriers and officers alike coming and going.
"I'll tell the First Lord you're here," Quintias said, and entered the tent. He came out only a few moments later, and beckoned Amara. She followed him inside.
A crowd of officers stood around a sand table in the center of the room, their quiet discussion buzzing. "Very well then, gentlemen," said a quiet, cultured baritone. "We know what needs to be done. Let's be about it."
The officers saluted with the kind of precision and discipline Amara knew never would have been seen during peacetime, a rattle of fists striking armor, and then began to disperse.
"He wanted to hear from you first thing," Quintias told her. "Go ahead."
Amara nodded her thanks to the man and walked forward to speak to the First Lord-and stopped in her tracks in shock.
Aquitainus Attis turned to her, his expression calm and confident beneath the shining steel circlet of the First Lord that he wore upon his brow, and nodded. "Countess Amara, welcome. We have much to discuss."
Isana walked into the command tent at the temporary camp and was unsurprised to find it empty except for Lord Aquitaine. The tall, leonine lord stood over the sand table, staring down at it as if reading a poem he could not quite comprehend.
"Your brother's wife is quite resourceful," he said quietly. "Not only did she arrange the escape of more than three hundred Knights and Citizens who would have been enslaved by Vord, and destroy their capability of adding any more to their tally, on the way here she also managed to compile a surprisingly complete estimate of the spread of the croach from the reports of the various hostages and her own observations."
"The only part of that which surprises me is hearing that she shared it with you," Isana replied in a level tone.
Aquitaine smiled without looking up from the map sculpted into the sand on the table in front of him. "Honestly, Isana. The time for our petty squabbles is past."
"Petty," Isana said quietly. "My pardon, Lord Aquitaine. I labored under the misconception that the death of hundreds of my friends and neighbors in Calderon was not a petty matter."
Aquitaine looked up at Isana and regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, the steel coronet at his brow gleaming in the light of the tent's furylamps. Then he said, "Let us suppose for a moment that what happened at Calderon had gone differently-that the Marat had wiped out the population of the valley, just as they did in Septimus's day. That I had positioned myself to stop the horde and won the favor of the Senate and various other parties."
"And if it had happened that way?" Isana asked.
"It might have saved millions of lives," Aquitaine said, his voice quiet and hard, and it gained in intensity as he spoke. "A stronger First Lord might have prevented Kalare's rebellion, or been able to end it with something other than a cataclysm that left a quarter of the Realm in chaos and anarchy that became an ideal breeding ground for the crowbegotten Vord."
"And you believed that you were the proper person to choose who would live and who would die."
"You saw where Gaius's constant games and manipulations took us. You can see it in the smoking ruin where Alera Imperia used to stand. You can see it in Kalare and the Amaranth Vale. You saw it the night they murdered Septimus." Aquitaine folded his hands behind his back. "Why not someone else? And if it is to be someone else, why not me?"
"Because you are not the heir to the throne," Isana replied. "My son is."
Aquitaine gave her a brittle smile. "The Realm is on its knees, Isana. Your son is not here to lead. I am."
"He will return," Isana said.
"Perhaps," Aquitaine said. "But until he does, he is a theoretical leader-and we are facing days of deathly practicality."
"When he comes back," Isana said, "will you honor his claim? His birthright? He is Septimus's son, Lord Aquitaine."
Aquitaine's expression flickered and he glanced down at the table again for a moment, frowning.
"If he comes back," he said, with quiet emphasis on the first word, "then... we will see. Until that day, I will do as I think best for the Realm." His eyes flicked back up to her, and became hard and cold as agates. "And I will expect your support."
Isana lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.
"Division in the Realm has all but killed us," Aquitaine continued in a deadly quiet voice. "I will not permit it to happen again."
"Why tell me this now?" Isana asked him.
"Because I would rather we were forthright with one another. It will save time later." He spread his hands. "I have a certain amount of respect for you. I would rather have your support over the next few months. But make no mistake, I cannot tolerate your antagonism. I'll kill you first. Even if I must cross Raucus to do it."
Isana wondered if Aquitaine expected her to cringe in fear. "Do you honestly think you could handle him?" she asked.
"In a duel, one of us would die," Aquitaine replied, "and the other would not win. Neither would the Realm."
"Why?" Isana asked. "Why would you say this to me? I have no Legions to offer you, no cities, no wealth. Why do you need my support?"
"Because Raucus has made it clear to me that he came south for your sake. And Phrygia follows him. Lord and Lady Placida have made it clear that if I am wise, I will treat you with all deference. The heir presumptive to Ceres seems to think you can do no wrong. And, of course, the people love you-one of their own, risen up to wed the Princeps and provide the Realm its desperately needed heir. You have far more power than you realize."
He leaned forward slightly. "But a third of the Realm is dead, Isana. What's left is going to die, too, unless we stop stabbing one another's backs and work together."
"If you say so," Isana said stiffly. "You are more an authority than I in matters of treachery."
He sighed, and settled down on a camp stool. He spread his hands, and asked, wearily, "What do you think Septimus would have wished you to do?"
Isana regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then she said, "You aren't the same as your wife, Lord Aquitaine."
He gave her a wintry smile. "We shared a goal, an occasional bed, and a name. Little else."
"You shared a conviction that any methods were acceptable, provided their ends were worthy of them," Isana said.
Aquitaine arched an eyebrow. "It's easy to argue against morality by the numbers-as long as the numbers are small. Millions of people-people we Citizens of the Realm were expected to protect-are dead, Isana. The time for difficult decisions is here. And making no decision at all may prove just as disastrous."
Isana turned her face away, absorbing that for a moment. A bitter taste filled her mouth.
What would Septimus have wished her to do, indeed.
"The Realm needs its leaders to stand together," she said quietly. "I will work with you-until my son returns. I will promise you nothing more than that."
Aquitaine studied her profile for a moment, then nodded once. "We understand one another. That is a reasonable beginning." He frowned for a moment, then said, "May I ask you something?"
"Of course," Isana said.
"Do you honestly think he will return?"
"I do."
Aquitaine tilted his head for a moment, his eyes distant. "I confess... there is a part of me that wishes he would."
"To free you of responsibility?"
Aquitaine waved a hand in a vague gesture of negation. "Because he reminds me of Septimus. And what the Realm needs at the moment is Septimus."
Isana tilted her head. "Why do you say that?"
He gestured at the sand table. Isana came over to it and saw a map of the entire Realm laid out in the sand.
A quarter of it, perhaps more, was colored in croach green.
"The Vord have been beaten down," Aquitaine said. "But they reproduce so swiftly that they'll be back again. Entire forests, within the croach, have been filled with trees that bear young Vord like fruit. All the queen need do is wait for a fresh crop, then she will come at us again, as strong as before."
"Can we not... burn their crops, so to speak?" Isana asked, frowning down at the sand.
"Possibly. If the causeways to the south hadn't been cut behind us as we withdrew." He shook his head. "And we don't have hands enough to cover all the ground we'd need to cover in the time we have before the Vord's counterstroke. I'll send teams down, certainly, but that will only mitigate the enemy's numbers.
He gestured at the northern part of the map, where a handful of markers indicating Legions stood. "Meanwhile, we're becoming more reliant upon militia for our fighting men, we've lost our trade nexus for the moving of supplies and funds, and the Vord are slowly killing off the most powerful of our crafters."
"What are you saying, Lord Aquitaine?" Isana asked.
He gestured to the north. "I can gather our forces. I can marshal what resources remain to us. I can plan the battles, and I can hurt the Vord. I can feed them to the crows in mountains." He shook his head. "But unless we can get into the southlands and strike at them there, where they breed, it won't matter how many of them we kill. They'll send more. Sooner or later, this war ends in only one way.
"I can give the people of Alera a strong leader, Isana. I can give them time." He bowed his head, and spoke very quietly. "But I cannot give them hope."
Gaius Octavian, Princeps of the Realm of Alera, had gotten over his seasickness nearly an entire day sooner than he had the last time he'd been aboard ship, which meant almost nothing in terms of relative suffering. But he would take improvements wherever he could get them.
Tavi stood on the deck of the Slive in the dead of night. They were moored to one of the great ice ships, which had been dubbed the Alecto, and even the officer of the watch was drowsing. Tavi had lain on the deck for a while as his head cleared, then made his way to the prow of the ship. He stared up at the great vessel for a time, and out over the gentle sea, where hundreds of other ships rode slowly toward Alera, at barely a third the pace they could have managed had they been alone instead of bracketed by the ice ships. Still, late was much better than never-and a return voyage without the ice ships would encompass far too many nevers for Tavi's taste.
He nibbled on ship's biscuit, stared out at the sea, and waited for his stomach to settle so that he could finally get some sleep. He was entirely unprepared when a voice said, from directly behind him, "What do you find so interesting?"
Tavi all but jumped out of his clothes at the words, and he spun to find a young woman standing behind him.
Or at least, that was his first impression of her.
He took a second, longer look and noticed the way that mist and fog seemed to cling to her in the shape of a common gown. He noticed the way her eyes kept shifting from the hue of one metal or gem to the next. And, most of all, he noticed the depths of her eyes; eyes that belonged to no young woman - to no human being at all.
"What do you find so interesting?" the woman repeated, smiling.
"Not interesting, exactly," Tavi replied. "It just... seems easier to consider the future when I'm looking out over the sea. What might happen. What I might do in response. How I might shape it."
The woman's smile didn't widen so much as deepen. "You are all the same," she murmured.
"I don't understand," Tavi said quietly. "Who are you?"
She regarded him with steady, bright eyes, and he noticed that neither her hair nor the mist of her dress stirred with the evening wind. "Your grandfather," she said, "called me Alera."