Read Online Furies of Calderon by Jim Butcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jim Butcher
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Audiobooks, Fantasy - Epic, Fantasy - General, Science Fiction & Fantasy, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Unabridged Audio - Fiction
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the floor. The puddle began sweeping over it obediently, gathering up bits of dust and debris as it did, and Isana went to open the door.
Cold air poured in, sharp contrast to the steamy kitchen, and she closed her eyes, taking deep, bracing breaths.
She had to admit it. Beritte’s words had stung her, not simply because she’d been feeling too many of the adolescent’s intense emotions, but because they had rung true as well. Beritte had all the luscious curves and rondure that would draw any man in the Valley to her—and indeed, she had half a dozen of them dancing on her strings even now, including Tavi, though the boy tried to deny it. Beritte. Firm and ripe and able to bear strong children.
The way no one had thought Isana would ever be able to.
She pressed her lips together and opened her eyes. Enough. There was too much work to be about to let an old pain rise to the surface, now. Thunder rumbled over the Valley’s floor, and Isana crossed to the northern window, opened it, and eyed the mountain peak to the north. Garados loomed in all of his surly majesty there, snow already gliding further down his shoulders and toward the valley floor, warning of the coming winter. Dark clouds gathered around his head, and as she watched, they flashed with dark green lightning, sending another rumbled warning across the Valley. Lilvia, then—Garados’s wife, the storm fury, gathering up clouds for another assault on the people of the Valley. She would wait all day, gathering the warmth of the sun into her cloud-herds and then send them stampeding across the Valley in a rush of thunder and wind and, like as not at this time of the year, sleet and icy rain.
Isana pressed her lips together. Intolerable. If only a decently gifted wind-crafter would settle down in the Valley, they might blunt the worst of Thara’s storms before they ever reached the stead-holts—but then, any wind-crafter that strong would be serving as a Knight or one of the Cursors.
She walked to the sink and touched the spigot, alerting the furies inside that she desired water from the well. A moment later, it spilled out, cold and clear, and she filled a pair of pans before letting the furies stop the flow of it, then went around the kitchens and refilled the water in the pots that had boiled over. A moment later, she took the bread from the ovens, setting it out in its pans, and slipped the next round of pans into their places. She glanced around the kitchens once more, making sure that everything was in place. The puddle was finished with the floor, so she shooed it out the door to ease into the earth beside the threshold and sink back into the ground.
“Rill?” Isana called. “What’s taking so long?”
The water bubbled and stirred in her scrying bowl (which doubled as her mixing bowl most days), and then three little splashes announced Rill’s presence. Isana crossed back to the bowl, drew her braid back over her shoulder, and regarded the surface of the water intently as the ripples stilled.
The fury showed her a dim view from what must have been a stagnant pool somewhere in the Pine Hollows. A murky shape that could have been Bernard paced across the image in the bowl and then was gone. Isana shook her head. Rill’s images were not always entirely clear, but it seemed that Bernard and Tavi were still pursuing the missing flock.
She murmured a dismissal to Rill and set the bowl aside—and then noticed a sudden lack of sound from the courtyard. A breath later, the tension levels of Bernard-holt swelled into painful intensity.
Isana steeled herself against the perceptions and walked briskly out of the kitchen. She kept her breathing steady and held herself with rigid confidence. The hold-folk were pressed shoulder to shoulder, facing the center of the courtyard. They were silent, but for faint mutters and worried whispers.
“Kord,” she murmured. Isana stepped forward, and the hold-folk made way for her, clearing a narrow
Cold air poured in, sharp contrast to the steamy kitchen, and she closed her eyes, taking deep, bracing breaths.
She had to admit it. Beritte’s words had stung her, not simply because she’d been feeling too many of the adolescent’s intense emotions, but because they had rung true as well. Beritte had all the luscious curves and rondure that would draw any man in the Valley to her—and indeed, she had half a dozen of them dancing on her strings even now, including Tavi, though the boy tried to deny it. Beritte. Firm and ripe and able to bear strong children.
The way no one had thought Isana would ever be able to.
She pressed her lips together and opened her eyes. Enough. There was too much work to be about to let an old pain rise to the surface, now. Thunder rumbled over the Valley’s floor, and Isana crossed to the northern window, opened it, and eyed the mountain peak to the north. Garados loomed in all of his surly majesty there, snow already gliding further down his shoulders and toward the valley floor, warning of the coming winter. Dark clouds gathered around his head, and as she watched, they flashed with dark green lightning, sending another rumbled warning across the Valley. Lilvia, then—Garados’s wife, the storm fury, gathering up clouds for another assault on the people of the Valley. She would wait all day, gathering the warmth of the sun into her cloud-herds and then send them stampeding across the Valley in a rush of thunder and wind and, like as not at this time of the year, sleet and icy rain.
Isana pressed her lips together. Intolerable. If only a decently gifted wind-crafter would settle down in the Valley, they might blunt the worst of Thara’s storms before they ever reached the stead-holts—but then, any wind-crafter that strong would be serving as a Knight or one of the Cursors.
She walked to the sink and touched the spigot, alerting the furies inside that she desired water from the well. A moment later, it spilled out, cold and clear, and she filled a pair of pans before letting the furies stop the flow of it, then went around the kitchens and refilled the water in the pots that had boiled over. A moment later, she took the bread from the ovens, setting it out in its pans, and slipped the next round of pans into their places. She glanced around the kitchens once more, making sure that everything was in place. The puddle was finished with the floor, so she shooed it out the door to ease into the earth beside the threshold and sink back into the ground.
“Rill?” Isana called. “What’s taking so long?”
The water bubbled and stirred in her scrying bowl (which doubled as her mixing bowl most days), and then three little splashes announced Rill’s presence. Isana crossed back to the bowl, drew her braid back over her shoulder, and regarded the surface of the water intently as the ripples stilled.
The fury showed her a dim view from what must have been a stagnant pool somewhere in the Pine Hollows. A murky shape that could have been Bernard paced across the image in the bowl and then was gone. Isana shook her head. Rill’s images were not always entirely clear, but it seemed that Bernard and Tavi were still pursuing the missing flock.
She murmured a dismissal to Rill and set the bowl aside—and then noticed a sudden lack of sound from the courtyard. A breath later, the tension levels of Bernard-holt swelled into painful intensity.
Isana steeled herself against the perceptions and walked briskly out of the kitchen. She kept her breathing steady and held herself with rigid confidence. The hold-folk were pressed shoulder to shoulder, facing the center of the courtyard. They were silent, but for faint mutters and worried whispers.
“Kord,” she murmured. Isana stepped forward, and the hold-folk made way for her, clearing a narrow
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