Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  For the first time in a long while, the conversation turned not on various people’s illnesses, aches, pains, and digestive failures, but widened to the whole of Chalion-Ibra. The dy Gura brothers had considerable witness to report of last year’s successful campaign by the Marshal dy Palliar to retake the mountain fortress of Gotorget, commanding the border of the hostile Roknari princedoms to the north, and young Royse-Consort Bergon’s seasoning attendance there upon the field of battle.

  Ferda said, “Foix here took a bad knock from a Roknari war hammer during the final assault on the fortress, and was much abed this winter—a mess of broken ribs, with inflammation of the lungs to follow. Chancellor dy Cazaril took him up as a clerk while his bones finished knitting. Our cousin dy Palliar thought a little light riding would help him regain his condition.”

  A faint blush colored Foix’s broad face, and he ducked his head. Liss’s gaze at him sharpened a trifle, though whether imagining him with sword or with pen in hand Ista could not tell.

  Lady dy Hueltar did not fail to register her usual criticism of Royina Iselle for riding to the north to be near her husband and these stirring events, even though—or perhaps that was, because—she had been brought safely to bed of a girl thereafter.

  “I do not think,” said Ista dryly, “that Iselle staying slugabed in Cardegoss would have resulted in a boy, however.”

  Lady dy Hueltar mumbled something; Ista was reminded of her own mother’s sharp critique when she had borne Iselle to Ias, those long years ago. As if anything she might have done would have made it come out any differently. As if, when it had come out differently in her second confinement, it was any better … her brow wrinkled in old pain. She looked up to intersect dy Cabon’s sharp glance.

  The divine swiftly turned the subject to lighter matters. Dy Ferrej had the pleasure of trotting out an old tale or two for a new audience, which Ista could not begrudge him. Dy Cabon told a warm joke, albeit milder than many Ista had heard over the roya’s table; the courier girl laughed aloud, caught a frown from Lady dy Hueltar, and held a hand over her mouth.

  “Please don’t stop,” said Ista to her. “No one has laughed like that in this household for weeks. Months.” Years.

  What might her pilgrimage be like if, instead of dragging a lot of tired guardians out on a road that suited their old bones so ill, she could travel with people who laughed? Young people, not brought low by old sin and loss? People who bounced? People to whom, dare she think it, she was an elder to be respected and not a failed child to be corrected? At your command, Royina, not, Now, Lady Ista, you know you can’t …

  She said abruptly, “Learned dy Cabon, I thank the Temple for taking thought for me, and I shall be pleased to have your spiritual guidance upon my journey.”

  “You honor me, Royina.” Dy Cabon, sitting, bowed as deeply as he could over his belly. “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Ista.

  A chorus of objection rose around the table: lists of persons and support not assembled, ladies-in-waiting, their maids, their grooms, of clothing, gear, of transport animals, of dy Baocia’s small army not yet arrived.

  She almost added weakly, Or as soon as all can be arranged, but then stiffened her resolve. Her eye fell on Liss, chewing and listening with detached fascination.

  “You are all correct,” Ista raised her voice to override the babble, which died in relief. She went on, “I do not have youth, or energy, or courage, or knowledge of how to make my way upon the road. So I shall commandeer some. I shall take the courier, Liss, to be my lady-in-waiting and my groom in one. And none more. That shall save three dozen mules right there.”

  Liss nearly spat out the bite she was chewing.

  “But she’s only a courier!” gasped Lady dy Hueltar.

  “I assure you Chancellor dy Cazaril will not begrudge her to me. Couriers hold themselves ready to ride wherever they are ordered. What say you, Liss?”

  Liss, eyes wide, finished gulping, and managed, “I think I’d make a better groom than waiting lady, Royina, but I will try my best for you.”

  “Good. None could ask more.”

  “You are the dowager royina!” dy Ferrej almost wailed. “You cannot go out on the roads with so little ceremony!”

  “I plan a pilgrimage in humility, dy Ferrej, not a march in pride. Still … suppose I were not a royina? Suppose I were some simple widow of good family. What servants, what reasonable precautions would I take then?”

  “Travel incognito?” Learned dy Cabon caught the idea instantly, while the rest were still gobbling in misdirected resistance. “That would certainly remove many distractions from your spiritual study, Royina. I suppose … such a woman would simply ask the Temple to provide her with escort in the usual way, and they would fill the request from the riders available.”

  “Fine. That has been done for me already. Ferda, can your men ride tomorrow?”

  The cacophony of protest was overridden by dy Gura’s simple, “Certainly. As you command, Royina.”

  The shocked silence that followed was decidedly baffled. And even, possibly, a little thoughtful, if that was not too much to hope.

  Ista sat back, a smile turning her lips.

  “I must take thought for a name,” she said at length. “Neither dy Chalion nor dy Baocia will do, unsimple as they are.” Dy Hueltar? Ista shuddered. No. She ran down a mental list of other minor relatives of the provincars of Baocia. “Dy Ajelo would do.” The Ajelo family had scarcely crossed her view, and never once provided a lady-in-waiting to assist in Ista’s … keeping. She bore them no ill will. “I shall still be Ista, I think. It’s not so uncommon a name as to be remarked.”

  The divine cleared his throat. “We need to confer a little tonight, then. I do not know what route you desire of me. A pilgrimage should have both a spiritual plan and, in necessary support of it, a material one.”

  And hers had neither. And if she did not assert one, one would surely be foisted upon her. She said cautiously, “How have you led the pious before, Learned?”

  “Well, that depends much upon the purposes of the pious.”

  “I have some maps in my saddlebags that might supply some inspiration. I’ll fetch them, if you like,” Ferda offered.

  “Yes,” said the divine gratefully. “That would be most helpful.”

  Ferda hurried out of the chamber. Outside, the day drew toward sunset, and the servants moved quietly about the room, lighting the wall sconces. Foix leaned his elbows comfortably on the table, smiled amiably at Liss, and found room for another slice of honey-nut cake while they waited for his brother’s return.

  Ferda strode back into the dining chamber in a very few minutes, his hands full of folded papers. “Here … no, here is Baocia, and the provinces to the west as far as Ibra.” He spread a stained and travel-worn paper out on the table between the divine and Ista. Dy Ferrej peered anxiously over dy Cabon’s shoulder.

  The divine frowned at the map for a few minutes, then cleared his throat and looked across at Ista. “We are taught that the route of a pilgrimage should serve its spiritual goal. Which may be simple or manifold, but which will partake of at least one of five aims: service, supplication, gratitude, divination, and atonement.”

  Atonement. Apology to the gods. Dy Lutez, she could not help thinking. The chill memory of that dark hour still clouded her heart, on this bright evening. Yet who owed Whom the apology for that disaster? We were all in it together, the gods and dy Lutez and Ias and I. And if abasing herself on the altar of the gods was the cure for that old wound, she had eaten dirt enough already for a dozen dy Lutezes. Yet the scar still bled, in the deep dark, if pressed.

  “I once saw a man pray for mules,” Foix remarked agreeably.

  Dy Cabon blinked. After a moment he asked, “Did he get any?”

  “Yes, excellent ones.”

  “The gods’ ways are … mysterious, sometimes,” murmured dy Cabon, apparently digesting this. “Ahem. Yours—Royina—is a pilgrimage
of supplication, for a grandson as I understand it. Is it not?” He paused invitingly.

  It is not. But dy Ferrej and Lady dy Hueltar both made noises of assent, and Ista let it pass.

  Dy Cabon ran his finger over the intricately drawn chart, thick with place names, seamed with little rivers, and decorated with rather more trees than actually stood on Baocia’s high plains. He pointed out this or that shrine devoted to the Mother or the Father within striking distance of Valenda, describing the merits of each. Ista forced herself to look at the map.

  To the far south, beyond the map’s margins, lay Cardegoss, and the great castle and fortress of the Zangre of evil memory. No. To the east lay Taryoon. No. West and north, then. She trailed her finger across the map toward the spine of the Bastard’s Teeth, the high range that marked the long north–south border of Ibra, so recently united with Chalion in her daughter’s marriage bed. North along the mountains’ edge, some easy road. “This way.”

  Dy Cabon’s brow wrinkled as he squinted at the map. “I’m not just sure what …”

  “About a day’s ride west of Palma is a town where the Daughter’s Order has a modest hostel, rather pleasant,” remarked Ferda. “We’ve stayed there before.”

  Dy Cabon licked his lips. “Hm. I know of an inn near Palma that we might reach before nightfall, if we do not tarry on the road. It has a most excellent table. Oh, and a sacred well, very old. A minor holy place, but as Sera Ista dy Ajelo desires a pilgrimage in humility, perhaps a small start will serve her best. And the great shrines tend to be crowded, this time of year.”

  “Then by all means, Learned, let us avoid the crowds and seek humility, and pray at this well. Or table, as the case may be.” Ista’s lips twitched.

  “I see no need to weigh out prayer by the grain, as though it were dubious coin,” replied dy Cabon cheerily, encouraged by her fleeting smile. “Let us do both, and return abundance for abundance.” The divine’s thick fingers made calipers of themselves and stepped from Valenda to Palma to the spot Ferda had tapped. He hesitated, then his hand turned once more. “A day’s ride from there, if we arise early enough, is Casilchas. Sleepy little place, but my order has a school there. Some of my old teachers are still there. And it has a fine library, considering the small size of the place, for many teaching divines who have died have left it their books. I grant a seminary of the Bastard is not exactly … exactly apropos to the purpose of this pilgrimage, but I confess I should like to consult the library.”

  Ista wondered, a little dryly, if the school also had a particularly fine cook. She rested her chin upon her hand and studied the fat young man across from her. Whatever had possessed the Temple of Valenda to send him up to her, anyway? His half-aristocratic ancestry? Hardly. Yet experienced pilgrimage conductors usually had their charges’ spiritual battle plans all drawn out in advance. There were doubtless books of devotional instruction on the topic. Perhaps that was what dy Cabon wanted from the library, a manual that would tell him how to go on. Perhaps he had slept through a few too many of those holy lectures, in Casilchas.

  “Good,” said Ista. “The Daughter’s hospitality for the next two nights, the Bastard’s thereafter.” That would put her at least three full days’ ride from Valenda. A good start.

  Dy Cabon looked extremely relieved. “Excellent, Royina.”

  Foix was mulling over the maps; he’d pulled out one of all Chalion, necessarily less detailed than the one dy Cabon studied. His finger traced the route from Cardegoss north to Gotorget. The fortress guarded the end of a chain of rough, if not especially high, mountains that ran partway along the border between Chalion and the Roknari princedom of Borasnen. Foix’s brows knotted. Ista wondered what memories of pain the name of that fortress evoked in him.

  “You’ll want to avoid that region, I think,” said dy Ferrej, watching Foix’s hand pause at Gotorget.

  “Indeed, my lord. I believe we should steer clear of all north-central Chalion. It is still very unsettled from last year’s campaign, and Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon are already starting to assemble forces there for the fall.”

  Dy Ferrej’s brows climbed with interest. “Do they think to strike for Visping already?”

  Foix shrugged, letting his finger slide up to the north coast and the port city named. “I’m not sure if Visping can be taken in a single campaign, but it were good if it could. Cut the Five Princedoms in two, gain a seaport for Chalion that the Ibran fleet might find refuge in …”

  Dy Cabon leaned over the table, his belly pressing its edge, and peered. “The princedom of Jokona, to the west, would be next after Borasnen, then. Or would we strike toward Brajar? Or both at once?”

  “Two fronts would be foolish, and Brajar is an uncertain ally. Jokona’s new prince is young and untried. First pinch Jokona between Chalion and Ibra—pinch it off. Then turn to the northeast.” Foix’s eyes narrowed, and his pleasant mouth firmed, contemplating this strategy.

  “Will you join the campaign in the fall, Foix?” Ista asked politely.

  He nodded. “Where the Marshal dy Palliar goes, the dy Gura brothers will surely follow. As a master of horse, Ferda will likely be pressed into assembling cavalry mounts by midsummer. And, lest I miss him and start to pine, he’ll find some hot, dirty job for me. Never any lack of those.”

  Ferda snickered. Foix’s returning grin at his brother seemed entirely without resentment.

  Ista thought Foix’s analysis sound, and had no doubt how he’d come by it. Marshal dy Palliar and Royse Bergon and Royina Iselle were none of them fools, and Chancellor dy Cazaril had a deep wit indeed, and not much love for the Roknari coastal lords who had once sold him to slavery on the galleys. Visping was a prize worth playing for.

  “We shall steer west, and away from the excitement, then,” she said. Dy Ferrej nodded approval.

  “Very good, Royina,” said dy Cabon. His sigh was only a little wistful, as he refolded Ferda’s maps and handed them back. Did he fear his father’s martial fate, or envy it? There was no telling.

  The party broke off shortly thereafter. The planning and complicated itinerary-listing and complaints from Ista’s women went on and on. They would never stop arguing, Ista decided; but she could. She would. You can’t solve problems by running away from them, it was said, and like the good child she had once been, she had believed this. But it wasn’t true. Some problems could only be solved by running away from them. When her lamenting ladies at last blew out the candles and left her to her rest, her smile crept back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ISTA SPENT THE EARLY MORNING SORTING THROUGH HER wardrobe with Liss, searching for clothing fit for the road and not merely a royina. Much that was old lingered in Ista’s cupboards and chests, but little that was plain. Any ornate or delicate gown that made Liss wrinkle her nose in doubt went instantly into the discard pile. Ista did manage to assemble a riding costume of leggings, split skirt, tunic, and vest-cloak that showed not a scrap of Mother’s green. Finally, they ruthlessly raided the wardrobes of Ista’s ladies and maids, to the latters’ scandal. This resulted at the last in a neat pile of garments—practical, plain, washable, and, above all, few.

  Liss was clearly happier to be sent off to the stables to select the most suitable riding horse and baggage mule. One baggage mule. By midday Ista’s feverish single-mindedness resulted in both women dressed for the road, the horses saddled, and the mule packed. The dy Gura brothers found them standing in the cobbled courtyard when they rode through the castle gate heading ten mounted men in the garb of the Daughter’s Order, dy Cabon following on his white mule.

  The grooms held the royina’s horse and ushered her to the mounting block. Liss leapt up lightly on her tall bay with no such assistance. In the spring of her life Ista had ridden much; hunted all day and danced till the moon went down, at the roya’s glittering court when she’d first come there. She, too, had been too long abed in this castle of age and grievous memory. A little light duty to regain condition was just what
was wanted.

  Learned dy Cabon clambered from his mule long enough to stand up on the mounting block and intone a mercifully brief prayer and blessing upon the enterprise. Ista bowed her head, but did not mouth the responses. I want nothing of the gods. I’ve had their gifts before.

  Fourteen people and eighteen animals just to get her on the road. What about those pilgrims who somehow managed this with no more than a staff and a sack?

  Lady dy Hueltar and all of Ista’s ladies and maids trooped down to the courtyard, not to wish her farewell, it transpired, but to weep pointedly at her in one last, decidedly counterproductive, bid to make her change her mind. In the teeth of all evidence to the contrary, Lady dy Hueltar wailed, “Oh, she’s not serious—stop her, for the Mother’s sake, dy Ferrej!” Gritting her teeth, Ista let their cries bounce off her back like arrows glancing from chain mail. Dy Cabon’s white mule led out the archway and down the road at a gentle amble, but even so the voices fell behind at last. The soft spring wind stirred Ista’s hair. She did not look back.

  THEY REACHED THE INN AT PALMA BY SUNSET, BARELY. IT HAD BEEN A very long time, Ista reflected as she was helped down from her horse, since she had spent a whole day in the saddle, hunting or traveling. Liss, plainly bored with the pilgrimage’s placid pace, jumped down off her animal as though she’d spent the afternoon lounging on a couch. Foix had apparently worked through whatever stiffness lingered from his injuries earlier in the brothers’ journey. Even dy Cabon didn’t waddle as though he hurt. When the divine offered her his arm, Ista took it gratefully.

  Dy Cabon had sent one of the men riding ahead to bespeak beds and a meal for the party, fortunately as it turned out, for the inn was small. Another party, of tinkers, was being turned away as they arrived. The place had once been a narrow fortified farmhouse, now made more sprawling with an added wing. The dy Gura brothers and the divine were given one chamber to share, Ista and Liss another, and the rest of the guardsmen were assigned pallets in the stable loft, although the mild night made this no discomfort.