Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(51)

"Great furies preserve," she said. "What has happened to my stepson?"

"According to the recruit whose weapon struck him, it was a training accident, my lady," Cyril said.

Lady Antillus's expression grew distressed. "He looks horrible. I take it that Foss has seen to him?"

Foss grunted from the floor. "Aye, m'lady. But he lost a lot of blood."

"What is his prognosis?" she asked the healer.

"Urn. What?" Foss asked.

"He's not in immediate danger," Tavi interjected. "But the extent of the damage that may have been inflicted by blood loss is not yet clear."

Lady Antillus's attention turned to Tavi, and he could feel the full, throbbing force of her personality behind that gaze. She was not a tall woman, in particular, and she had dark hair that fell in a straight, shimmering curtain to her hips. Her face was pale, with a touch of the perpetually ruddy cheeks that come to those living in the northern climates, and her eyes were the color of deep amber. She had stark cheekbones and thin lips, and taken together it made her look too harsh to be conventionally beautiful-but the grace of her carriage and the steady, burning fires of intelligence in her amber eyes combined into an impressive, attractive whole.

Once again, Tavi was struck with the notion that she looked familiar to him, but for the life of him he could not track down the proper memory.

"I don't believe we've spoken, young man," she said.

Tavi bowed to her at the waist. "Subtribune Scipio Rufus, m'lady. I, of course, know who you are."

The Knight stepped forward, staring at the silent Max. It wasn't until he did that Tavi realized that he was several years younger than Tavi himself. He was a little under average height and slender. His hair was long and auburn, his eyes ivy green, and his armor was of masterful quality-and completely unmarred.

"Mother," the young Knight said quietly, "he looks like death. Shouldn't we... do something? Take care of him?"

"Of course, we-"

"No," Captain Cyril said, overriding her with his own voice.

Lady Antillus stared at Cyril in shock. "Excuse me?"

The captain bowed slightly toward her. "Beg pardon, lady. I ought to have said, 'not yet.' The centurion has endured a great shock, but his injuries have been ably closed. I judge that he needs rest, first. Any further crafting could tax whatever strength remains in him and do more harm than good."

"Right," the young Knight said, nodding. "He's got a point, Mother-"

"Crassus," Lady Antillus snapped, her voice cool and edged.

The young Knight dropped his eyes and shut his mouth at once.

Lady Antillus turned back to Cyril. "In good conscience I must ask: Are you actually arrogant enough to think you know better than a trained watercrafter? Are you a Tribune Medica, Captain?"

"I am the Tribune Medica's commanding officer, Tribune," Cyril said in a perfectly calm voice. "I am the man who can tell the Tribune Medica either to follow her orders or depart the service of this Legion."

Lady Antillus's eyes widened. "Do you dare speak to me so, Captain?"

"Leave this tent. That is my order, Tribune."

"Or what follows?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Or I will discharge you in dishonor and have you escorted from this camp."

Lady Antillus's eyes flashed with anger, and the air of the tent suddenly became stiflingly warm. "Beware, Cyril. This is foolishness."

The captain's mild tone never changed. "This is foolishness, what, Tribune?"