Tavi rested his chin in his hands and closed his eyes, feeling foolish, selfish, childish. He had been so focused on getting the sheep-his sheep- back, on keeping his uncle's respect, that he had forgotten to behave in a manner that was worthy of it. He had exposed himself and others to great risk, all for the sake of his dream-the Academy.
If he had gotten to the Academy as a result of his ill-considered choices, would it have been worth it? Could he really have made a better life for himself, knowing what he had traded away to get it?
"You are an idiot, Tavi," he mumbled to himself. "A true, shining example of idiocy."
Matters could be much worse for him-much worse for his family, as well. He shuddered at the thought of his uncle, dead on the ground, or his aunt laying beside a healing tub with her eyes empty, her body still breathing but already dead. Though things had not played out the way he had wished them to, they could have been more disastrous.
Though he ached in every muscle and his head felt light and feverish, he went to the door. He would find his aunt and uncle, apologize to them, and offer to make amends. He had no idea what he would do, but he knew that he had to at least try. They deserved that much.
He had to earn the respect he wanted, not through daring or cleverness, but simply through hard work and reliability, just as his uncle and aunt had.
Tavi was about to open the door when there came a swift, soft rapping at his window.
He blinked, looking back across the dimness of his room. Outside, the wind was rising, and he had already put up the storm shutters. Perhaps one of the more mischievous wind furies had rattled the shutters.
The knock came again. Three quick knocks, two slow, three quick, two slow.
Tavi went to the window and unfastened the latch to the storm shutters.
They sprang open, all but knocking him down, and let in a torrent of cold, misty wind. Tavi drew back several steps, as someone slipped into the room, lithe and nearly silent.
Amara made a soft, quiet sound and slipped entirely into the room, then turned and shut the window and the shutters behind her. She was wearing what looked like a pair of his uncle's trousers, belted about her slender waist with a heavy leather cord. His tunic and shirt billowed on her, as did the heavily padded jacket and cloak, but she had secured them with more strips of leather, so that she was quite evidently functional in them. She wore pale slippers on her feet and what looked like several layers of socks over them. In one hand, she held a bundle that included an old leather pack of Bernard's, his hunting bow, a handful of arrows, and the sword they'd recovered from the Princeps' Memorium.
"Tavi," she said. "Get dressed in warm clothes. Bring extra socks, some blankets, food if you have any up here. We're leaving."
"Leaving?" Tavi stammered.
"Keep your voice down," the slave hissed.
Tavi blinked and mumbled, "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Hurry. We don't have much time."
"We can't leave," Tavi protested. "The storm's coming in."
"It won't be as bad as the last one," Amara said. "And we can take more salt with us. You have a smokehouse here, yes? Salt for the meat?"
"Of course, but-"
Amara crossed to his trunks, swung the first open, and started digging.
"Hey!" Tavi protested.
She threw a pair of heavy trousers into his face, followed by three of his thickest shirts. She followed that with his jacket from its peg on the wall and then his second-best cloak.
"Get those on," Amara said.
"No," Tavi said, firmly. "I'm not leaving. I just got back. People got hurt trying to come and find me. I'm not going to make them go through that again. You can't expect me to put the people of my own steadholt in danger so that I can go running off with a fugitive slave!"
Amara went to the door and checked the latch, making sure it was shut. "Tavi, we don't have time. If you want to live, come with me. Right now."
Tavi blinked at her, so startled that he dropped the clothes he had been holding. "Wh-what?"
"If you don't leave with me, right now, you aren't going to live through the night."
"What are you talking about?"
"Get dressed," she said.
"No," he snapped. "Not until I know what's happening."
Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time he'd been near her, Tavi felt a sliver of fear quiver through him. "Tavi. If you don't get dressed and come with me, I will knock you out, wrap you in a blanket, and take you with me."
Tavi licked his lips. "N-no you won't," he said. "You couldn't carry me down through the hall, and you won't be able to carry me out the window, either-or on the ground. Not with your ankle hurt."
Amara blinked at him and then ground her teeth. "Too clever," she muttered. "This steadholt, maybe every one in the Valley, is in danger. I think you and I can help them. Tavi, get dressed. Please. I'll explain while you do."
Tavi swallowed, staring at the young woman. The steadholt in danger?
What was she talking about? The last thing he needed was to go chasing off again, to prove to everyone who mattered that he couldn't be trusted.
But Amara had saved his life. And if she was telling the truth…
"All right. Talk." He stooped down to recover his clothes and started shrugging into the shirts.
Amara nodded and came closer, holding the clothes for him, helping him into them. "First of all, I'm not a slave. I'm a Cursor. And I've been sent to this valley at the command of the First Lord himself."
Tavi blinked up at her and then stuffed his arms into the sleeves. "To deliver mail?"
Amara sighed. "No. That's just one of the things we do, Tavi. I am the agent of the First Lord. He thinks this valley may be in danger, and he sent me to do something about it."
"But you're a girl!"
She frowned at him and jerked the next shirt down over his ears roughly. "I'm a Cursor. And I think the First Lord is right."
"But what does this have to do with me? With Bernardholt?"
"You've seen the danger, Tavi. I need to take you to Garrison. You have to tell the Count there what you saw."
A cold feeling chilled Tavi, and he blinked up at her. "The Marat," he breathed. "The Marat are coming. Aren't they? Like when they killed the Princeps."
"I think so," Amara said.
"My uncle saw them, he's the one that should go. The Count would never believe that-"
"He can't," Amara said. "Crafting trauma, when he was healed. He doesn't remember any of it."
"How do you know that?" Tavi demanded.
"Because I listened. I faked passing out, and I listened in on all the talk up here. Your uncle doesn't remember, and your aunt is suspicious of me. There's no time to explain it to them-we have to leave here, and right now."
Tavi tugged the heavy tunic on over the shirts, his hands moving more slowly now. "Why?"
"Because downstairs are some men who are here to kill you, me, and anyone who has seen the Marat."
"But why would another Aleran do that?"
"We really don't have time for that. They're the enemy. They want to
unseat the First Lord, and they want the Marat to wipe out the steadholts in the Valley so that the Realm perceives the First Lord as weak and ineffective."
Tavi stared at her. "Wipe out the Valley? But that would mean…"
She regarded him, her face drawn. "Unless we take warning to the Count, unless the forces at Garrison are ready to meet them, the Marat will kill everyone. This steadholt and all the rest as well."