Jim Butcher - Codex Alera 02 - Academ's Fury

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ACADEM'S FURY
Codex Alera Book 2
By
Jim Butcher
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
ACADEM'S FURY
Codex Alera Book 2
JIM BUTCHER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
This Book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2005 by Jim Butcher
Text design by Kristin del Rosario.
ACE is an imprint of The Berkley Publishing Group.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Edition: July 2005
ISBN: 0441012833
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Prologue
If the beginning of wisdom is in realizing that one knows nothing, then the beginning of understanding is in
realizing that all things exist in accord with a single truth: large things are made of smaller things.
Drops of ink are shaped into letters, letters form words, words form sentences, and sentences combine
to express thought. So it is with the growth of plants that spring from seeds, as well as with walls built of
many stones. So it is with mankind, as the customs and traditions of our progenitors blend together to
form the foundation for our own cities, history, and way of life.
Be they dead stone, living flesh, or rolling sea; be they idle times or events of world-shattering proportion,
market days, or desperate battles, to this law, all things hold:
Large things are made from small things.
Significance is cumulative—but not always obvious.
From the writings of Gaius Secondus,
First Lord of Alera
Wind howled over the rolling, sparsely wooded hills of the lands in the care of the Marat, the
One-and-Many people. Hard, coarse flecks of snow fled before it, and though the One rode high in the
sky, the overcast hid his face.
Kitai began to feel cold for the first time since spring. She turned to squint behind her, shielding her eyes
from the sleet with one hand. She Wore a brief cloth about her hips, a belt to hold her knife and hunting
pouch, and nothing else. Wind threw her thick white hair around her face, its color blending with the
driving snow.
"Hurry up!" she called.
There was a deep-chested snort, and a massive form paced into sight.
Walker the gargant was an enormous beast, even of its kind, and its shoulders stood nearly the height of
two men above the earth. His shaggy winter coat had already come in thick and black, and he paid no
notice to the snow. His claws, each larger than an Aleran saber, dug into the frozen earth without
difficulty or hurry.
Kitai's father, Doroga, sat upon the gargant's back, swaying casually upon the woven saddlecloth. He
was dressed in a loincloth and a faded red Aleran tunic. Doroga's chest, arms, and shoulders were so
laden with muscle that he had been obliged to tear the sleeves from the red tunic—but as it had been a
gift, and discarding it would be impolite, he had braided a rope from the sleeves and bound it across his
forehead, tying back his own pale hair. "We must hurry, since the valley is running from us. I see. Maybe
we should have stayed downwind."
"You are not as amusing as you think you are," Kitai said, glowering at her father's teasing.
Doroga smiled, the expression emphasizing the lines in his broad, square features. He took hold of
Walker's saddle rope and swung down to the ground with a grace that belied his sheer size. He slapped
his hand against the gargant's front leg, and Walker settled down amicably, placidly chewing cud.
Kitai turned and walked forward, into the wind, and though he made no sound, she knew her father
followed close behind her.
A few moments later, they reached the edge of a cliff that dropped abruptly into open space. The snow
prevented her from seeing the whole of the valley below, but for the lulls between gusts, when she could
see all the way to the bottom of the cliff below them.
"Look," she said.
Doroga stepped up beside her, absently slipping one vast arm around her shoulders. Kitai would never
have let her father see her shiver, not at a mere autumn sleet, but she leaned against him, silently grateful
for his warmth. She watched as her father peered down, waiting for a lull in the wind to let him see the
place the Alerans called the Wax Forest.
Kitai closed her eyes, remembering the place. The dead trees were coated in the croach, a thick,
gelatinous substance layered over and over itself so that it looked like the One had coated it all in the wax
of many candles. The croach had covered everything in the valley, including the ground and a sizeable
portion of the valley walls. Here and there, birds and animals had been sealed into the croach, where,
still alive, they lay unmoving until they softened and dissolved like meat boiled over a low fire. Pale things
the size of wild dogs, translucent, spiderlike creatures with many legs once laid quietly in the croach,
nearly invisible, while others prowled the forest floor, silent and swift and alien.
Kitai shivered at the memory, then forced herself to stillness again, biting her lip. She glanced up at her
father, but he pretended not to have noticed, staring down.
The valley below had never in her people's memory taken on snow. The entire place had been warm to
the touch, even in winter, as though the croach itself was some kind of massive beast, the heat of its
body filling the air around it.
Now the Wax Forest stood covered in ice and rot. The old, dead trees were coated in something that
looked like brown and sickly tar. The ground lay frozen, though here and there, other patches of rotten
croach could be seen. Several of the trees had fallen. And in the center of the Forest, the hollow mound
lay collapsed and dissolved into corruption, the stench strong enough to carry even to Kitai and her
father.
Doroga was still for a moment before he said, "We should go down. Find out what happened."
"I have," Kitai said.
Her father frowned. "That was foolish to do alone."
"Of the three of us here, which has gone down and come back alive again the most often?"
Doroga grunted out a laugh, glancing down at her with warmth and affection in his dark eyes. "Maybe
you are not mistaken." The smile faded, and the wind and sleet hid the valley again. "What did you find?"
"Dead keepers," she replied. "Dead croach. Not warm. Not moving. The keepers were empty husks.
The croach breaks into ash at a touch." She licked her lips. "And something else."
"What?"
"Tracks," she said in a quiet voice. "Leading away from the far side. Leading west."
Doroga grunted. "What tracks?"
Kitai shook her head. "They were not fresh. Perhaps Marat or Aleran. I found more dead keepers along
the way. As if they were marching and dying one by one."
"The creature," Doroga rumbled. "Moving toward the Alerans."
Kitai nodded, her expression troubled.
Doroga looked at her, and said, "What else?"
"His satchel. The pack the valleyboy lost in the Wax Forest during our race. I found it on the trail beside
the last of the dead spiders, his scent still on it. Rain came. I lost the trail."
Doroga's expression darkened. "We will tell the master of the Calderon Valley. It may be nothing."
"Or it may not. I will go," Kitai said.
"No," Doroga said.
"But father—"
"No," he repeated, his voice harder.
"What if it is looking for him?"
Her father remained quiet for a time, before he said, "Your Aleran is clever. Swift. He is able to take care
of himself."
Kitai scowled. "He is small. And foolish. And irritating."
"Brave. Selfless."
"Weak. And without even the sorcery of his people."
"He saved your life," Doroga said.
Kitai felt her scowl deepen. "Yes. He is irritating."
Doroga smiled. "Even lions begin life as cubs."
"I could break him in half," Kitai growled.
"For now, perhaps."
"I despise him."
"For now, perhaps."
"He had no right."
Doroga shook his head. "He had no more say in it than you."
Kitai folded her arms, and said, "I hate him."
"So you want someone to warn him. I see."
Kitai flushed, heat touching her cheeks and throat.
Her father pretended not to notice. "What is done is done," he rumbled. He turned to her and cupped her
cheek in one vast hand. He tilted his head for a moment, studying her. "I like his eyes on you. Like
emerald. Like new grass."
Kitai felt her eyes begin to tear. She closed them and kissed her father's hand. "I wanted a horse."
Doroga let out a rumbling laugh. "Your mother wanted a lion. She got a fox. She did not regret it."
"I want it to go away."
Doroga lowered his hand. He turned back toward Walker, keeping his arm around Kitai. "It won't. You
should Watch."
"I do not wish to."
"It is the way of our people," Doroga said.
"I do not wish to."
"Stubborn whelp. You will remain here until some sense soaks into your skull."
"I am not a whelp, father."
"You act like one. You will remain with the Sabot-ha." They reached Walker, and he tossed her halfway
up the saddle rope without effort.
Kitai clambered up to Walker's broad back. "But father—"
"No, Kitai." He climbed up behind her, and clucked to Walker. The gargant placidly rose and began
back the way they had come. "You are forbidden to go. It is done."
Kitai rode silently behind her father, but sat looking back to the west, her troubled face to the wind.
Miles's old wound pained him as he trudged down the long spiral staircase into the depths of the earth
below the First Lord's palace, but he ignored it. The steady, smoldering throb from his left knee was of
little more concern to him than the aching of his tired feet or the stretching soreness of weary muscles in
his shoulders and arms after a day of hard drilling. He ignored them, his face as plain and remote as the
worn hilt of the sword at his belt.
None of the discomfort he felt disturbed him nearly as much as the prospect of the conversation he was
about to have with the most powerful man in the world.
Miles reached the antechamber at the bottom of the stairs and regarded his distorted reflection in a
polished shield that hung upon the wall. He straightened the hem of his red-and-blue surcoat, the colors
of the Royal Guard, and raked his fingers through his mussed hair.
A boy sat on the bench beside the closed door. He was a lanky, gangling youth, a young man who had
come to his growth but recently, and the hems of his breeches and sleeves both rode up too far, exposing
his wrists and ankles. A mop of dark hair fell over his face, and an open book sat upon his lap, one finger
still pointed at a line of text though the boy was clearly asleep.
Miles paused, and murmured, "Academ."
He jerked in his sleep, and the book fell from his lap and to the floor. The boy sat up, blinking his eyes,
and stammered, "Yes, sire, what, uh, yes sire. Sire?"
Miles put a hand on the boy's shoulder before he could rise. "Easy, easy. Finals coming up, eh?"
The boy flushed and ducked his head as he leaned down to recover the book. "Yes, Sir Miles. I haven't
had much time for sleep."
"I remember," he said. "Is he still inside?"
The boy nodded again. "As far as I know, sir. Would you like me to announce you?"
"Please."
The boy rose, brushing at his wrinkled grey academ's tunic, and bowed. Then he knocked gently on the
door and opened it.
"Sire?" the boy said. "Sir Miles to see you."
There was a long pause, then a gentle male voice responded, "Thank you, Academ. Send him in."
Miles walked into the First Lord's meditation chamber, and the boy shut the soundproof door behind
him. Miles lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head, waiting for the First Lord to acknowledge
him.
Gaius Sextus, First Lord of Alera, stood in the center of the tiled floor. He was a tall man with a stern
face and tired eyes. Though his skills at watercrafting caused him to resemble a man only in his fifth
decade of life, Miles knew that he was twice that age. His hair, once dark and lustrous, had become even
more heavily sown with grey in the past year.
On the tiles beneath Gaius, colors swirled and changed, patterns forming and vanishing again, constantly
shifting. Miles recognized a portion of the southern coastline of Alera, near Parcia, which remained in
place for a moment before resolving into a section of mountainous wilderness that could only have been
in the far north, near the Shieldwall.
Gaius shook his head and passed his hand through the air before him, murmuring, "Enough." The colors
faded away completely, the tiles reverting to their usual dull, stationary colors. Gaius turned and sank
down into a chair against the wall with a slow exhalation. "You're up late tonight, Captain."
Miles rose. "I was in the Citadel and wanted to pay my respects, sire."
Gaius's greying brows rose. "You walked down five hundred stairs to pay your respects."
"I didn't count them, sire."
"And if I am not mistaken, you are to inspect the new Legion's command at dawn. You'll get little sleep."
"Indeed. Almost as little as you will, my lord."
"Ah," Gaius said. He reached out and took up a glass of wine from the bureau beside his chair. "Miles,
you're a soldier, not a diplomat. Speak your mind."
Miles let out a slow breath and nodded. "Thank you. You aren't getting enough sleep, Sextus. You're
going to look like something the gargant shat for the opening ceremonies of Wintersend. You need to get
to bed."
The First Lord waved one hand. "Presently, perhaps."
"No, Sextus. You're not going to wave this off. You've been here every night for three weeks, and it
shows. You need a warm bed, a soft woman, and rest."
"Unfortunately, I'm likely to have none of the three."
"Balls," Miles said. He folded his arms and planted his feet. "You're the First Lord of Alera. You can
have anything you want."
Gaius's eyes flickered with a shadow of surprise and anger. "My bed 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."
"They already are helping," Gaius said quietly. "Though they don't know it. I've been breaking the storm's
back and letting the High Lords protect their own territory once it was manageable."
"Then ask for further help," Miles said. "Surely Riva or Placida could lend windcrafters to the coastal
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 Color---1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8--9-TextSize--10--11--12--13--14--15--16--17--18--19--20--21--22--23--24ACADEM'SFURYCodexAleraBook2ByJimButcherContentsPrologueChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter...

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