Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(168)

Two things stood out clear.

The brand on his face, which looked as hideous and sharp as ever.

The mostly dried blood beneath his nostrils, and the accompanying flecks of ugly, dark scarlet on his lips.

"You remember what Ladv Veradis said," Giraldi told her. "It's over."

Isana stared at the blood and remembered what it meant. She didn't have strength enough to shake her head, but she managed to murmur, "No."

Giraldi turned her face back to his. "Crows take it, Isana," he said, his voice frustrated. "Some fights can't be won."

Fire-thunder erupted nearby outside, rattling the room's furniture and sending ripples across the glassy surface of the water in the healing tub.

Giraldi looked at the window, then back to Isana. "It's time, Steadholder. You haven't slept in days. You tried. Great furies know you tried. But he's going to die. Soon. If you don't withdraw, you'll die with him."

"No," Isana said again. She heard the unsteady quaver of her voice as she did.

"Bloody crows," Giraldi said, his tone at once gentle and anguished. "Stead-holder. Isana. Crows and ashes, girl. Fade wouldn't want you to throw your life away for no reason."

"The decision is mine." So many words took a noticeable effort, and she felt short of breath. "I will not leave him."

"You will" Giraldi said, his voice heavy and hard. "I promised Bernard I'd watch over you. If it comes to that, Isana, I'll cut you loose of him and drag you out of this room."

A quiet and very distant surge of defiance whispered through Isana's thoughts, and it gave her voice a barely audible growl of determination. "Bernard would never abandon one of his own." She took a breath. "You know that. Fade is mine. I will not leave him."

Giraldi said nothing. Then he shook his head and drew the knife from his belt. He reached for the rope that kept her hand in contact with Fade's.

The defiance returned, stronger, and Isana caught the centurion's wrist in her fingers. Joints crackled with tension. Her knuckles turned white. Then she lifted her head and glared into the centurion's eyes. "Touch us," she said, "and I'll kill you. Or die trying."

Giraldi's head rocked back-not from the grip of Isana's weakened fingers, she knew, and not from the feebly voiced threat. It had been her eyes.

"Crows," he whispered. "You mean it."

"Yes."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why, Isana? Don't tell me Fade is just a simpleton slave that took a liking to following your nephew around. Who is he?"

Isana struggled to think clearly, to remember who knew and who was supposed to know and who absolutely could not know. But she was so tired, and there had been so many years-and so many lies. She was sick to death of the lies and the secrets.

"Araris," she whispered. "Araris Valerian."

Giraldi mouthed the word to himself, his eyes visibly widening. Then he looked from the wounded man to Isana and back, and his face went absolutely white. The old soldier bit his lip and looked away. His features sagged visibly, as if he'd suddenly aged another ten years. "Well," he said, his voice shaking. "A few things make more sense."

Isana released his wrist.

He looked down at the knife for a moment, then returned it to its sheath on his belt. "If I can't stop you... I may as well help you. What do you need, my lady?"

Isana's eyes widened suddenly as she stared at Giraldi, and she suddenly saw how to get through to Fade. Her heart labored, sudden hope spreading through her exhausted mind in a wave of sudden, tingling heat.