"And without it they'd starve," Myra said. "We're helping them."
"Precisely," Isana said.
"And it's here because of you!" the girl said.
That was an oversimplification of staggering degree, but there was little point in trying to explain it to the carter's daughter. "The supplies and money came from a great number of important and generous Citizens," she replied. "The leaders of the Dianic League. I'm only keeping things organized."
Myra frowned. "But Papa said without you, all those old biddies wouldn't have done anything!"
Partly true, though she should hardly like to be the one to call, say, Lady Placida an old biddy. But Isana had managed to parlay the exposure she'd been given as Lady Aquitaine's rallying standard for the Dianic League into something far more useful than a trough for her patron's thirst for power. Lady Aquitaine had not been at all amused at what Isana had done with the personal influence she'd gained, but if she'd tried to undermine Isana's relief project, it would have turned a great many minds in the League against her-and Lady Aquitaine knew it. The barely simmering edge of irritation that had tinged Lady Aquitaine's presence every time Isana had spoken to her recently was almost reason enough to have endured the endless hours of effort she'd needed to gather support and put the relief column together. Though if she admitted it to herself, that small victory was nothing compared to the misery and suffering the caravan would alleviate.
Isana was helping. She was doing something good, something that she could be proud of-something Septimus would have been proud of.
Isana fought off a smile and a faint shimmer of tears at the same time. "Everyone wanted to do something to help the refugees, child. They only needed someone to give them a way to do it."
Myra chewed on a fingernail and studied her steadily. "Papa says you're important."
Isana smiled at the girl. "Everyone's important."
"Myra," came the carter's voice from the front of the wagon. "Come away now, and let the Steadholder work."
"Coming, Papa," the girl said. She gave Isana a smile and scampered back out of the wagon's rear.
Isana went back to her work on the inventory, and didn't look up from it until the caravan halted for its midday rest. She kept working while the carters and mule skinners took their lunch. She hadn't been walking or driving or loading all morning, after all.
A shout of challenge went up outside from one of the caravan's mounted guards, and Isana felt herself tense up. The caravan, while not transporting a great deal of liquid wealth, did have a considerable amount of material of use and value. It was too large a target for bandits, but there was always the chance that the Canim might seize the food and supplies in order to feed their own doubtlessly hungry soldiers.
No furor arose, though, and Isana relaxed and kept to her inventories, until the trotting hoofbeats of an approaching horse came up to the wagon and stopped.
Isana looked up, frowning faintly, concentrating on her link with Rill-and suddenly bolted up from where she sat, spilling ink on her most recent page, and not caring in the least. Her heart pounded in a fashion entirely too girlish to suit anyone of her age or her station or responsibilities, and she found herself fidgeting with her hair and straightening her dress. Then she stared in dismay at her ink-stained fingers. Doubtless she had just managed to spread smudges over her entire outfit, and possibly upon her face as well. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
Boots hit the ground outside the wagon, and the horse shifted its weight. Someone knocked on the sideboards.
Feeling mildly ridiculous, Isana parted the curtains with one hand and descended from the wagon, emerging into the noonday sunshine of the earliest days of spring in the Amaranth Vale.
A man of average height stood waiting for her, his dark hair shorn to regulation Legion length, his armor plain and showing signs of use. The features of one side of his face were strongly carved, striking. The other half of his face was marred by horrible burn scars centered around the shape of the Legion brand for cowardice, high on his cheekbone. He wore a simple sword at his side, and the scarlet half cape of a Legion singulare.
Isana felt her heart speed up again as she smiled at him. "Araris."
His face turned up into one of his rare, swift smiles, and his eyes all but glowed from within. The sudden warmth of his emotions flooded over Isana, and she felt as if she might float up off the ground. She could feel his happiness and excitement at seeing her, his affection, and a certain, lazily controlled hunger for her that she knew would draw out spots of pink high on her cheeks.
"Isana," he said quietly. She offered her hand. He took it and bent over it, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. Isana felt the warmth of his breath as an impact that spread deliciously up her arm to dance along every fiber of her body.
He straightened, eyes sparkling, fingers tightening very gently around hers. "You look…" His eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Inky."
Isana tilted her head back and laughed.
"And beautiful," he said. "I've missed you."
"And I you," she replied, covering his hand with her other one. "What are you doing here? We were to arrive at the Elinarch in another two days."
Some of Araris's smile trickled away. "I bring you word. Can we speak here?"
Isana glanced around them. The carters and their crews were sitting down to a simple lunch at the cook's wagon, farther down the line. There was no one nearby. "I believe so."
Araris nodded once. "I am sent to caution you, of course, to remember that while you may be Tavi's blood kin, you have never met Rufus Scipio. You must take every precaution not to reveal his identity."
"Of course." Isana sighed. "I'm not quite senile yet. What else?"
Araris regarded her with a steady gaze for a moment. Then he said, "When he was a child, it was right and proper that you should make decisions for him." He leaned forward, his fingers tightening on hers, giving his words gentle emphasis. "He is no longer a child."
Isana felt her shoulders stiffening. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, in that same gentle tone, "that he has a right to know, Isana. He has a right to know the truth. He has a right to make his own decisions now."
Isana jerked her chin up, the habit of two decades of worry and caution condensing into a flash of outrage and anger. "Oh? And who are you to decide such a thing?"
Araris's face never wavered. "His singulare, Isana. His bodyguard and protector. I safeguard his well-being and ward his life and freedom, with my own if necessary. And in my judgment, ignorance may prove dangerous to him. Even deadly."
Isana bit her lip and looked down, unable to meet Araris's calm, unwavering eyes, awash in his continued, steady love, acutely aware of his concern for her, his respect, and his absolute sincerity.
He touched her chin with his fingertips, lifting her eyes to his. "Isana," he said. "He's your son. It is your place to tell him. He should hear it from you." He shook his head. "But if you can't-or won't-I will."
Isana flinched a little at the words, if not his quiet, steady tone. "Has it come to that? Really?"
"Yes."
The simple answer held absolutely no room for doubt. Isana bit her lip.
"He'll… Will he understand? Why I had to do it? Lie to him…" She shook her head. "He's grown so fast, Araris."
"He'll understand," he said quietly. "Or he won't. Either way, he deserves to know. He needs to know."
Isana shivered, and without being asked, Araris stepped forward, putting his arms around her. She leaned against him gratefully, closing her eyes. His armor was warm from the gentle sunshine, and he felt steady, immovable, like an obdurate stone in a rushing stream. He was that. He had always been there for her, and for Tavi, had always watched them, helped them, protected them, his presence and his trustworthiness something so elemental that she'd barely thought to question it, any more than she would have tested fire to be sure that it was hot, water to be sure it was wet.