Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Wash water was brought almost on their heels to the room where Ista and Liss were guided. No rooms at the seminary were large, Ista suspected, but theirs had space for a bed, a truckle bed, and a table and chairs, with a balcony overlooking the town wall and the stream behind this main building. Meals for both women were brought soon thereafter on trays, with hastily arranged pots of blue and white flowers for the season as well.

  After supper Ista took her handmaiden, with Ferda and Foix for escort, and strolled around the town in the fading light. The two officer-dedicats made a handsome pair, in their blue tunics and gray cloaks, swords carried with circumspection, not swagger; and not a few Casilchas maidens’—and matrons’—heads turned as they passed. Liss’s stride and height nearly matched that of the dy Gura brothers, a display of youth and health to make silks and jewels look like tawdry toys. Ista felt herself as splendidly attended as ever she had been at the roya’s court.

  The temple was of the standard plan, if of small scale: four domed lobes, one for each member of the Holy Family, around an open court where the holy fire burned on its central hearth, with the Bastard’s Tower freestanding behind His Mother’s court. The walls were built of the native gray stone, though the roof arches were finely carved wood, with a small riot of brightly painted demons, saints, holy animals, and plants appropriate to each god cavorting along the beams. For lack of any better entertainment, they all attended the evening services there. Ista was weary of the gods, but she had to admit, the singing was a pleasure; the seminary contributed a white-robed and enthusiastic choir. The pious effect was only slightly spoiled by the choir leader peeking periodically at Ista for her reaction. Ista sighed inwardly and made sure to smile and nod, to assuage the woman’s anxiety.

  Three days of riding had tired both people and animals; tomorrow both would rest here. A little elusive ease seemed to have crept in to Ista’s spirit—whether its source was sunlight, exercise, cheerful young company, or distance from Valenda, she hardly knew, but she was grateful for it. She slid her body under the feather quilt, finding the narrow bed more luxurious than many more ornate but less comfortable ones in royal castles, and fell asleep before Liss stopped rolling over in her truckle.

  ISTA DREAMED, AND KNEW SHE WAS DREAMING.

  She crossed a paved castle courtyard in a late-spring or early-summer noon. A stone-arched walk ran around the court’s edge, the fine alabaster pillars carved with a tracery of vines and flowers in the Roknari style. The sun shone down high and hot; the shadows were black accent marks at her feet. She climbed—no, floated—up the stone stairs at the end, leading up over the arched walk to a wooden gallery, and along it. At the far end, a room: she passed softly into it without opening the carved door, which seemed to part and close around her skin like water.

  The room was dim and cool, but a grid of light fell through the shutters onto the woven rugs, making the muted colors briefly blaze. In the room, a bed; on the bed, a form. Ista drifted closer, like a ghost.

  The form was a man, asleep or dead, but very pale and still. His long, lean body was dressed in an undyed linen robe, folded across his chest and bound at the waist with a linen belt. On his left breast, a patch of dark red blood seeped through the cloth.

  Despite the wiry length of his frame the bones of his face were almost delicate: brow wide, jaw fine, chin somewhat pointed. His skin was unmarred by scar or blemish, but faint lines pressed across the forehead, framed the lips, fanned from the eyes. His dark, straight hair was brushed back from his forehead, the hairline high, receding; it flowed down over the pillow to his shoulders like a river of night, rippling with tiny gleams of moonlight from the silver threads. His brows were arched, winging; nose straight; lips parted.

  Ista’s ghostly hands unbound the belt, folded back the linen robe. The hair trailing down his chest was sparse, until it thickened at his crotch. The bird that nested there was fine and fair, and Ista smiled. But the wound beneath his left breast gaped like a small, dark mouth. As she watched, blood began to well from it.

  She pressed her hands over the dark slit to staunch the flow, but the red liquid oozed up between her white fingers, a sudden flood, washing across his chest, spreading in a scarlet tide across the sheets. His eyes flew open, he saw her, and he gasped.

  Ista woke, shot up, pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle her cry. She expected to taste blood, hot and sticky, and was almost shocked not to. Her body was drenched in sweat. Her heart was hammering, and she was panting as though she had been running.

  The room was dark and cool, but moonlight filtered through the shutter slats. On her truckle, Liss muttered and turned over.

  It had been one of those dreams. The real ones. There was no mistaking them.

  Ista clutched her hair, opened her mouth in a rictus, screamed silently. Breathed, “Curse You. Whichever one of You this is. Curse You, one and five. Get out of my head. Get out of my head!”

  Liss made a little cat sound and mumbled sleepily, “Lady? You all right?” She sat up on her elbow, blinking.

  Ista swallowed for control and cleared her tight throat. “Just an odd dream. Go back to sleep, Liss.”

  Liss grunted agreeably and rolled back over.

  Ista lay back, clutching her feather coverlet to her despite her sweat-dampened body.

  Was it starting again?

  No. No. I won’t have it. She gasped and gulped, and barely kept from breaking into sobs. In a few minutes, her breathing steadied.

  Who had that man been? It was no one she had ever seen in her life, she was certain. She would know him instantly if she ever saw him again, though; the fine shape of his face felt burned into her mind like a brand. And … and the rest of him. Was he enemy? Friend? Warning? Chalionese, Ibran, Roknari? Highborn or low? What did the sinister red tide of blood mean? No good thing, of that she was quite certain.

  Whatever You want from me, I can’t do it. I’ve proved that before. Go away. Go away.

  She lay trembling for a long time; the moonlight had turned to gray predawn mist before she fell asleep again.

  ISTA WAS AWAKENED NOT BY LISS SLIPPING OUT, BUT BY LISS SLIPPING back in. She was embarrassed to discover her handmaiden had let her sleep through morning prayers, rudeness both as a pilgrim, however false, and as a real guest.

  “You looked so tired,” Liss excused herself when Ista chided her. “You did not seem to sleep well last night.”

  Indeed. Ista had to admit, she was glad for the extra rest. A breakfast was brought to her on a tray by a bowing acolyte, also not usual for a pilgrim so laggard as to miss the morning’s start.

  After dressing and having her hair done up in a slightly more elaborate braid than usual—not looking too much like a horse, she hoped—she walked with Liss about the old mansion. They fetched up in the now-sunny court. Sitting on a bench by the wall, they watched the denizens of the school hurry past on their tasks, students and teachers and servants. Another thing Ista liked about Liss, she decided, was that the girl didn’t chatter. She conversed pleasantly enough when spoken to; the remainder of the time she fell without resentment into a restful silence.

  Ista felt a cool breath on her neck from the wall she leaned against: one of this place’s ghosts. It wove around her like a cat seeking a lap, and she almost raised her hand to shoo it away, but then the impression faded. Some sad spirit, not taken up by the gods, or refusing them, or lost somehow. New ghosts kept the form they’d had in life, for a while, often violent, harsh, outraged, but in time they all came to this faded, shapeless, slow oblivion. For such an old building, the ghosts here seemed few and tranquil. Fortresses—like the Zangre—were usually the worst. Ista was resigned to her lingering sensitivity, as long as no such wasted souls took form before her inner eye. Seeing such a spirit would mean some god breathed too near, that her second sight was leaking back—and all that went with it.

  Ista considered the courtyard in her dream. It was no place she’d ever been before, of that she
was sure. She was equally convinced it was a real place. To avoid it … to certainly avoid it, all she had to do was crawl back to the castle at Valenda and stay there till her body rotted around her.

  No. I will not go back.

  The thought made her restless, and she rose and prowled the school, Liss dutifully at her heels. Many acolytes or divines, passing her on the balcony walks or in the corridors, bowed and smiled, by which she concluded dy Cabon’s indiscretion had now been widely shared. Pretending to be Sera dy Ajelo was well enough; having half a hundred total strangers assiduously pretend along with her felt oddly irritating.

  They looked into a succession of small rooms crammed with books, packed in shelves and piled on tables: dy Cabon’s desired library. To Ista’s surprise, Foix dy Gura was curled up in a window seat with his nose in a volume. He looked up, blinked, rose, and made a little courtesy. “Lady. Liss.”

  “I did not know you read theology, Foix.”

  “Oh, I read anything. But it’s not all theology. There are hundreds of other things, some very odd. They never throw anything away here. There’s a whole locked room where they keep the books on sorcery and demons, and, um, the lewd books. Chained.”

  Ista raised her brows. “That they may not be opened?”

  Foix’s grin flashed. “That they may not be carried off, I think.” He held out the book in his hand. “There are more verse romances like this. I could find you one.”

  Liss, staring around in wonder at what might have been more books in one place than she’d ever seen in her life, looked hopeful. Ista shook her head. “Later, perhaps.”

  Dy Cabon poked his head through the door and said, “Ah. Lady. Good. I’ve been seeking you.” He heaved his bulk within. Ista hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived, she realized, not even at the evening services. He looked fatigued, gray and puffy under the eyes. Had he been up late in some forced study? “I request—beg—some private audience with you, if I may.”

  Liss looked up from where she’d been peering over Foix’s shoulder. “Should I leave you, Royina?”

  “No. The correct thing for a lady-in-waiting to do, should her mistress wish private speech with some gentleman not of her immediate family, is to place herself out of earshot, but within sight or call.”

  “Ah.” Liss nodded understanding. Ista would never have to repeat the instruction. Liss might be untutored, but five gods, what a joy it was to finally have an attendant with all her wits about her.

  “I could read to her, in this chamber or the next,” Foix immediately volunteered.

  “Um …” Dy Cabon gestured to a table and chairs visible through an archway in the next room. Ista nodded and passed in before him. Foix and Liss settled back into the cozy window seat.

  More discussion of their holy itinerary was due, she suspected, and tedious letters to be written thereafter apprising dy Ferrej of their planned route. Dy Cabon held her chair, then edged around the table to seat himself. She could hear Foix’s voice begin to murmur in the next chamber, too softly to make out the words from here, but in the cadences of some strong, striding narrative stanzas.

  The divine tented his hands on the table before him, stared at them for a moment, then looked her in the face. In a level tone he asked, “Lady, why are you really on this pilgrimage?”

  Ista’s brows rose at this utterly blunt beginning. She decided to return straight speech for straight speech; it was rare enough in a royina’s hearing and ought to be encouraged. “To escape my keepers. And myself.”

  “You have not and had not, then, any real intention to pray for a grandson?”

  Ista grimaced. “Not for all the gods in Chalion would I insult Iselle or my new granddaughter Isara so. I still remember how I was chided and shamed for bearing a daughter to Ias, these nineteen years ago. The selfsame brilliant girl who is now the brightest hope the royacy of Chalion has had in four generations!” She controlled her fierce tone, which clearly had taken dy Cabon aback. “Should a grandson come, in due time, I shall of course be very pleased. But I will not beg the gods for any favor.”

  He took this in, nodded slowly. “Yes. I had come to suspect something of a sort.”

  “It is, I grant, a trifle impious to use a pilgrimage so, and abuse the good guards the Daughter’s Order lends me. Though I’m quite sure I’m not the first to make holiday at the gods’ expense. My purse shall more than compensate the Temple.”

  “That does not concern me.” Dy Cabon waved away these pecuniary considerations. “Lady. I have read. I have talked to my superiors. I have taken thought. I have—well, never mind that now.” He drew a breath. “Are you aware, Royina—do you realize—I have found reason to think, you see, that you may be extraordinarily spiritually gifted.” His gaze upon her face was deeply searching.

  Found reason where? What garbled, secret tales had the man heard? Ista sat back; did not, quite, recoil. “I am afraid that is not so.”

  “I believe you underestimate yourself. Seriously underestimate yourself. This sort of thing is, I admit, rare in a woman of your rank, but I have come to realize you are a very unusual woman. But I believe that, with prayer, guidance, meditation, and instruction, you might reach a pitch of spiritual sensitivity, of fulfilled calling, that, well, that most of us who wear our god’s colors only dream about and long for. These are not gifts to be lightly cast aside.”

  Not lightly, indeed. With great violence. How in five gods’ names had he come by this sudden delusion? Dy Cabon’s eager face, she realized, was afire with the look of a man seized by a grand idea. Was he picturing himself as her proud spiritual mentor? He would not be turned from his conviction that he was called to aid her to some life of holy service by any vague excuses on her part. He would not be stopped by anything less than the whole truth. Her stomach sank. No.

  Yes. It was not, after all, as though she had not made full confession before, to another god-gripped man. Perhaps these things grew easier with practice.

  “You are mistaken. Understand, Learned. I have walked down that road already, to its bitterest end. Once, I was a saint.”

  It was his turn to recoil, in astonishment. He gulped. “You were a vessel of the gods?” His face bunched up with consternation. “That explains … something. No, it doesn’t.” He grasped his hair, briefly, but let it go unravaged. “Royina, I do not understand. How came you to be god-touched? When was this miracle?”

  “Long, long ago.” She sighed. “Formerly, this story was a state secret. A state crime. I suppose it is no longer. Whether it will in time become rumor or legend or dead and buried, I know not. In any case, it is not to be shared, not even with your superiors. Or, if you seem to have cause to do so, take your instruction first from the Chancellor dy Cazaril. He knows all the truth of it.”

  “They say he is very wise,” said dy Cabon, wide-eyed now.

  “For once, they say right.” She paused, marshaling her thoughts, her memories, her words. “How old were you when Roya Ias’s great courtier, Lord Arvol dy Lutez, was executed for treason?”

  Dy Lutez. Ias’s boyhood companion, brother in arms, greatest servant throughout his darkly troubled thirty-five-year reign. Powerful, intelligent, brave, rich, handsome, courteous … there seemed no end to the gifts that the gods—and the roya—had piled upon the glorious Lord dy Lutez. Ista had been eighteen when she’d married Ias. Ias and his right arm dy Lutez had reached their fifties. Dy Lutez had arranged the marriage, the aging roya’s second, for already there were worries about Ias’s sole surviving son and heir, Orico.

  “Why, I was a young child.” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “Though I heard it talked about, later in my life. The rumor was …” He stopped abruptly.

  “The rumor you heard was that dy Lutez had seduced me and died for it at my royal husband’s hands, yes?” she supplied coolly.

  “Um, yes, lady. Was it—it wasn’t—”

  “No. It was not true.”

  He breathed covert relief.

  Her l
ips twisted. “It was not me he loved in that way, but Ias. Dy Lutez should have been a lay dedicat of your order, I think, instead of holy general of the Son’s.”

  In addition to bastards, the occasional artist, and other jetsam of the world, the Bastard’s Order was the refuge of those to whom it was not given to conform to the fruitful relations between men and women overseen by the great Four, but to seek their own sex. At this distance in time, space, and sin it was almost amusing to watch dy Cabon’s face as he unraveled her polite description.

  “That must have been … rather difficult for you, as a young bride.”

  “Then, yes,” she admitted. “Now …” She held out her hand and opened it, as if letting sand pass through her fingers. “It is beside the point. Far more difficult was my discovery that since the calamitous death of Ias’s father, Roya Fonsa, a great and strange curse had been laid upon the royal house of Chalion. And that I had brought my children into it, unknowing. Not told, not warned.”

  Dy Cabon’s lips made an O.

  “I had prophetic dreams. Nightmares. For a time, I thought I was going mad.” For a time, Ias and dy Lutez had left her in that terror, alone, uncomforted. It had seemed then, and still seemed now, a greater betrayal than any trivial sweaty graspings under the sheets could ever be. “I prayed and prayed to the gods. And my prayers were answered, dy Cabon. I spoke to the Mother face-to-face, as close as I am to you now.” She shivered still in memory of that overwhelming incandescence.

  “A great blessing,” he breathed in awe.

  She shook her head. “A great woe. Upon the instruction of the gods, as given to me, we—dy Lutez, and Ias, and I—planned a perilous ritual to break the curse, to send it back to the gods from whom it had once been spilled. But we—I, in my anxiety and fear, made a mistake, a great and willful mistake, and dy Lutez died in the midst of it as a direct result. Sorcery, miracle, call it what you will, the ritual failed, the gods withdrew from me … Ias in his panic put the treason rumor about, to account for the death. That bright star of his court, his best beloved, murdered, buried—then defamed, which was all but to be murdered again, for dy Lutez had loved his high honor better than his life.”