Free Furies of Calderon by Jim Butcher

forehead. The boy had gone beyond thought in his animal panic. There was no arrogance there, now, only a fear so intense that it made Isana’s skin feel cold.

    Kord sneered down at her. “I guess you’re going to want my word as well.”

    “What would be the point,” Isana snapped, keeping her voice low. “You’re scum, Kord, and we both know it.” Louder, she said, “Rill. Out.” She stood away as Bittan spluttered and coughed, retching more water out, finally drawing in a gasping breath of air. She left him there, coughing on the ground, and turned to go.

    The stone of the courtyard folded over one of her feet with a simple and almost delicate finality. Her heart fluttered with her own fear as she felt Kord’s cold anger on her back. She flicked her braid over her shoulder and shot him a look through narrowed eyes.

    “This isn’t over, Isana,” Kord promised, his voice very quiet. “I won’t stand for this.”

    Isana faced his dark stare, the cold and calculating hatred behind it, and borrowed from it, used it to steel herself against him, to return ice for ice. “You’d best hope it’s over, Kord,” she said. “Or you’re going to think what happened to Bittan was a kindness.” She flicked her eyes down to her foot and back up to him. “There’s a space for you in the barn. I’ll have some food sent down for lunch. We’ll call you at dinner.”

    Kord remained still for a moment. Then he spat to one side, and nodded toward his sons. Aric collected the gasping Bittan, hauling him to his feet, and the three of them walked toward the wide doors of the roomy stone barn. Only as they left did the ground quiver beneath Isana’s bare foot and let her go.

    She closed her eyes, and the terror she’d been holding back, her own, flooded out and over her. She started shaking, but she shook her head to herself, firmly. Not in front of everyone. She opened her eyes and looked around at the courtyard full of people. “Well?” she asked them. “There is a lot of work to do before the feast come sundown. I can’t do everything around here by myself. Get to it.”

    People moved, at her words, started talking again amongst themselves. Some of them shot her looks of mixed respect, admiration, and fear. Isana felt that last, like frozen cockleburs rolling over her skin. Her own folk, people she’d lived and worked with for years, afraid of her.

    She lifted a hand as tears blurred at her eyes—but that was one of the first tricks a water-crafter learned. She willed them away from her eyes, and they simply did not fall. The confrontation, with its rampant tension and potential for murderous violence, had shaken her more than anything in years.

    Isana drew in a careful breath and walked toward the kitchens. Her legs kept her steady, at least, though the weariness now crawling over her was nearly too much to bear. Her head ached with the efforts of the morning, with the pressure of all that water-crafting.

    Fade came shuffling out of the smithy as she passed it. He moved with an odd little drag of one foot. Not a large man, he had been badly burned when he had been branded with a coward’s mark, disfiguring the left half of his face—though that had been years ago. His hair, nearly black, had grown out long and curling to partially conceal it, and the scar tracing over his scalp, presumably a head wound also suffered in battle. The slave offered her a witless smile and a tin cup of water, holding it up to her along with a fairly clean cloth, far different from his own sweaty rags and burn-scarred leather apron. “Thank you, Fade,” Isana said. She accepted both and took a drink. “I need you to keep an eye on Kord. I want you to let me know if he or his sons leave the barn. All right?”

    Fade nodded rapidly, his hair flopping. A bit of drool flicked off his half-open mouth. “Eye on Kord,” he repeated. “Barn.” He frowned, staring into space for a long moment and then pointed a finger at