is unlikely to be warm so long as Caria is in it, Miles. You know how things stand between us."
"What did you expect? You married a bloody child, Sextus. She expected to live out an epic romance, and she found herself with a dried-up old spider of a politician instead."
Gaius's mouth tightened, the anger in his eyes growing more plain. The stone floor of the chamber rippled, the tremor making the table beside the chair rattle. "How dare you speak so to me, Captain?"
"You ordered me to, my lord. But before you dismiss me, consider. If I wasn't in the right, would it have angered you as much as it did? If you weren't so tired, would you have revealed your anger so obviously?"
The floor quieted, and Gaius's regard grew more weary, less angered. Miles felt a stab of disappointment. Once upon a time, the First Lord would not have surrendered to fatigue so easily.
Gaius took another sip of wine, and said, "What would you have me do, Miles? Tell me that."
"Bed," Miles said. "A woman. Sleep. Festival begins in four days."
"Caria isn't leaving her door open to me."
"Then take a concubine," Miles said. "Blight it, Sextus, you need to relax and the Realm needs an heir."
The First Lord grimaced. "No. I may have ill-used Caria, but I'll not shame her by taking another lover."
"Then lace her wine with aphrodin and split her like a bloody plow, man."
"I didn't realize you were such a romantic, Miles."
The soldier snorted. "You're so tense that the air crackles when you move. Fires jump up to twice their size when you walk through the room. Every fury in the capital feels it, and the last thing you want is for the High Lords arriving for Wintersend to know you're worried."
Gaius frowned. He stared down at his wine for a moment, before he said, "The dreams have come again, Miles."
Worry struck Miles like a physical blow, but he kept it from his face as best he could. "Dreams. You're not a child to fear a dream, Sextus."
"These are more than mere nightmares. Doom is coming to Wintersend."
Miles forced a note of scorn into his voice. "You're a fortune-teller now, sire, foreseeing death?"
"Not necessarily death," Gaius said. "I use the old word. Doom. Fate. Wyrd. Destiny rushes toward us with Wintersend, and I cannot see what is beyond it."
"There is no destiny," Miles stated. "The dreams came two years ago, and no disaster destroyed the Realm."
"Because of one obstinate apprentice shepherd and the courage of those holders. It was a near thing. But if destiny doesn't suit you, call it a desperate hour," Gaius said. "History is replete with them. Moments where the fate of thousands hangs at balance, easily tipped one way or the next by the hands and wills of those involved. It's coming. This Wintersend will lay down the course of the Realm, and I'll be blighted if I can see how. But it's coming, Miles. It's coming."
"Then we'll deal with it," Miles said. "But one thing at a time."
"Exactly," Gaius said. He rose from the chair and strode back onto the mosaic tiles, beckoning Miles to come with him. "Let me show you."
Miles frowned and watched as the First Lord passed his hand over the tiles again. Miles sensed the whisper of subtle power flowing through the tiles, furies from every corner of the Realm responding to the First Lord's will. From upon the tiles, he got the full effect of the furycrafted map, colors rising up around him until it seemed that he stood like a giant over the ghostly image of the Citadel of Alera Imperia, capital of Alera itself. His balance wavered as the image blurred, speeding westward, to the rolling, rich valley of the Amaranth Vale, and past it, over the Blackhills and to the coast. The image intensified, resolving itself into an actual moving picture over the sea, where vast waves rolled under the lashing of a vicious storm.
"There," Gaius said. "The eighth hurricane this spring."
After a hushed moment, Miles said, "It's huge."
"Yes. And this isn't the worst of them. They keep making them bigger."
Miles looked up at the First Lord sharply. "Someone is crafting these storms?"
Gaius nodded. "The Canim ritualists, I believe. They've never exerted this much power across the seas before. Ambassador Varg denies it, of course."
"Lying dog," Miles spat. "Why don't you ask the High Lords on the coast for assistance? With enough windcrafters, they should be able to blunt the storms."