Dy Cabon’s brow wrinkled. “But … was not this posthumous slander of Lord dy Lutez by your husband equally a slander of you, lady?”
Ista faltered at this unconsidered view. “Ias knew the truth. What other opinion mattered? That the world should think me, falsely, an adulteress, seemed far less hideous than that it should know me truly a murderess. But Ias died of grief thereafter, deserting me, leaving me to wail in the ashes of the disaster, mind-fogged and accursed still.”
“How old were you?” asked dy Cabon.
“Nineteen when it began. Twenty-two when it ended.” She frowned. When had that begun to seem so …
“You were very young for so great a burden,” he offered, voicing almost her own thought.
Her lips thinned in denial. “Officers like Ferda and Foix are sent to fight and die at no greater age. I was older then than Iselle is now, who bears the whole of the royacy of Chalion upon her slim shoulders, not just the woman’s half.”
“But not alone. She has great courtiers, and Royse-Consort Bergon.”
“Ias had dy Lutez.”
“Whom did you have, lady?”
Ista fell silent. She could not remember. Had she truly been so alone? She shook her head, drew breath. “Another generation brought another man, humbler and greater than dy Lutez, of deeper mind, more equal to the task. The curse was broken, but not by me. Yet not before my son Teidez died of it as well—of the curse, of my failure to lift it when he was a child, of betrayal by and of those who should have protected and guided him. Three years ago, by the labor and sacrifice of others, I was released from my long bondage. Into the silence of my life in Valenda. Unbearable silence. I am not old—”
Dy Cabon waved his plump hands in protest. “Indeed, no, my lady! You are quite lovely still!”
She made a sharp gesture, cutting off his misconstrual. “My mother was forty when I was born, her last child. I am forty now, in this ill-made spring of her death. One-half my life lies behind me, and half of that stolen from me by Fonsa’s great curse. One-half lies before. Shall it hold only a long, slow decay?”
“Surely not, lady!”
She shrugged. “I have made this confession twice now. Perhaps some third occasion will release me.”
“The gods … the gods may forgive much, to a truly penitent heart.”
Her smile grew bitter as desert brine. “The gods may forgive Ista all day long. But if Ista does not forgive Ista, the gods may go hang themselves.”
His “Oh” was very small. But, earnest faithful creature, he had to try again. “But to turn away so—dare I say it, Royina—you betray your gifts!”
She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a husky growl. “No, Learned. You daren’t.”
He sat back and was very quiet for several moments after that. At length, his face screwed up again. “Then what of your pilgrimage, Royina?”
She grimaced, waved a hand. “Pick a route to the best-laid tables, if you wish. Let us go anywhere, so long as it does not return to Valenda.” So long as it does not return to Ista dy Chalion.
“You must go home eventually.”
“I would throw myself off a precipice first, except that I would land in the arms of the gods, Whom I do not wish to see again. That escape is blocked. I must go on living. And living. And living …” She cut off her rising tones. “The world is ashes and the gods are a horror. Tell me, Learned, what other place is there for me to go?”
He shook his head, eyes very wide. Now she’d terrorized him, and she was sorry for it. She patted his hand contritely. “In truth, these few days of travel have brought me more ease than the past three years of idling. My flight from Valenda may have begun as a spasm, as a drowning man strikes upward to the air, but I do believe I start to breathe, Learned. This pilgrimage may be a medicine despite me.”
“I … I … Five gods grant it may be so, lady.” He signed himself. She could tell by the way his hand hesitated at each holy point that it was not, this time, a gesture of mere ritual.
She was almost tempted to tell him about her dream. But no, it would just excite him all over again. The poor young man had surely had enough for one day. His jowls were quite pale.
“I will take, um, more thought,” he assured her, and scraped his chair back from the table. His bow to her, as he rose, was not that of conductor to charge, nor of courtier to patron. He gave her the deep obeisance of piety to a living saint.
Her hand shot out, grabbed his hand halfway through its gesture of boundless respect. “No. Not now. Not then. Not ever again.”
He swallowed, shakily converted his farewell to a nervous bob, and fled.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY LINGERED TWO MORE DAYS IN CASILCHAS, WAITING OUT A slow spring rain, wrapped in a hospitality that Ista found increasingly uncomfortable. She was invited to meals in the seminary’s refectory not of scholarly austerity, but near banquets in her near honor, with senior divines and local notables of the town discreetly jostling for a place at her table. They still addressed her as Sera dy Ajelo, but she was forced to trade the new ease of her incognito for her old constrained court manners, learned in too stern a school, it seemed, ever to be forgotten. She was gracious; she was attentive to her hosts; she complimented and smiled and gritted her teeth and sent Foix to inform the elusive dy Cabon that he must finish his inquiries, whatever they were, immediately. It was time to travel on.
The days that followed were much better, a pleasant ramble through the blooming countryside from one minor shrine to another, nearly the escape Ista had hoped for from her pilgrimage. Moving steadily northwest, they passed out of Baocia into the neighboring province of Tolnoxo. Long hours in the saddle were interspersed with invigorating tramps about places of historical or theological interest—wells, ruins, groves, shrines, famous graves, commanding heights, formerly embattled fords. The young men of the party searched the military sites for arrowheads, sword shards, and bones, and argued over whether the blotches upon them were, or were not, heroic bloodstains. Dy Cabon had acquired another book for his saddlebag’s library, of the history and legends of the region, from which he read improving paragraphs as opportunities presented. Despite the odd succession of humble inns and holy hostels, quite unlike anything she had ever experienced as a royina or even as the youngest daughter of a provincar, Ista slept better than she had in her own bed for … as long as she could remember. The disturbing dream did not return, to her secret relief.
Dy Cabon’s first few morning sermons after Casilchas showed the results of his hasty researches, being plainly cribbed from some volume of model lessons. But the next few days brought more daring and original material, heroic tales of Chalionese and Ibran saints and god-touched martyrs in the service of their chosen deities. The divine made contorted connections between each day’s tale and the sites they were to view, but Ista was not deceived. His stories of the famous miracles that men and women had performed as vessels of the gods’ powers made Ferda’s and Foix’s and even Liss’s eyes shine with a spirit of emulation, but Ista found the divine’s message, on all its several levels, entirely resistible. He watched her anxiously for her responses; she thanked him coolly. He bowed and bit back disappointment, but also, fortunately, the temptation to reopen the subject more directly.
A break in dy Cabon’s oblique campaign occurred as they wound through the foothills of the western ranges and arrived at the town of Vinyasca, just in time for the mid-spring festival. This feast day fell at the apogee of the season, exactly midway between the Daughter’s Day and the Mother’s. In Vinyasca, it was also tied to the renewal of the trade caravans over the snowy passes from Ibra, bringing new wine and oil, dried fruit and fish, and a hundred other delicacies of that milder land, as well as exotic fare from even farther shores.
A fairground had been set up outside the town walls, between the rocky river and a pine grove. Mouthwatering smoke rose up from roasting pits behind tents displaying handicrafts and produce of the area’s maidens, who com
peted for honors in the goddess’s name. Liss shrugged at the tent of embroidery, sewing, and wool work; dy Cabon and Foix returned disappointed from a reconnoiter of the tent of foodstuffs to report that it did not offer morsels to any but the judges.
Food might be the focus, but youthful energy could not be denied. For all that it was a young women’s festival, young men vied for their gazes in a dozen contests of skill and daring. Ista’s guard, kindling at the challenges, begged for their commander’s indulgence and dispersed to try their luck, although Ferda meticulously apportioned pairs in turn to be at her call at all times. Ferda’s sternness eroded abruptly when he discovered the horse races. Having no one else’s leave to beg, he sought Ista’s, and she hid a smile and sent him off to ready his mount.
“My courier horse,” said Liss in a voice of longing, “could make all these country nags look like the plow horses they undoubtedly are.”
“I’m afraid the women’s race was earlier,” said Ista. She’d seen the winner led past, horse and girl festooned with blue-and-white garlands, surrounded by cheerful relatives.
“That was for the young maidens,” said Liss, her voice tinged with scorn. “There are some older women getting ready for the longer one—I saw them.”
“Are you sure they were not just grooms, or relatives, or owners?”
“No, for they were tying colors on their sleeves. And they had the look of riders.”
As Liss did, indeed. She was doing her best to keep her face dignified, but she was rising on her toes.
“Well,” said Ista, amused, “if Foix at least will undertake not to abandon me—”
Foix, smiling, favored her with a loyal bow.
“Oh, thank you, my lady!” cried Liss, and was gone as though racing afoot, back to the inn’s stable where they had stowed their mounts.
Ista strolled about the makeshift grounds on Foix’s arm, taking care to observe any contests in which her own men competed. A contest to gallop with a javelin picking off small rings set up on posts was won by one of her guard; a match that involved leaping from a horse to grapple a young steer to the ground was won by the steer. All brought back their prizes for their officer Foix to hold, and therefore Ista to notice; she felt half courtly, half maternal, and commiserated the dusty, limping steer-wrestler with as many words as she spared to congratulate the luckier contestants.
She had accepted her guard troop at first as an unavoidable encumbrance, and ignored them. But over the days of her journey she had learned names, faces, life stories—most very short. They had begun to look less like blank-faced soldiers, responsible for her, and more like overgrown children. She did not care for this oppressive shift in her perceptions. She did not want to be responsible for them. I had no luck with sons. Yet loyalty must run two ways, or else become betrayal in the egg.
As the contenders assembled for the horse race, Foix found Ista a spot on the slope overlooking the road, above most of the rest of the eager crowd. In a gallant’s gesture he spread his vest-cloak, carried over his arm in the warmth of the bright afternoon, on the ground for Ista to settle upon. They had a fine view of the start and finish point, which was a large stump by the roadside. The course ran down the valley road for about two miles, circled a stand of oak trees crowning a mound, and returned by the same route.
Some twenty or so horses and their riders milled about in the wide space on the road. Ferda dy Gura, on his shining black beast, was shortening his stirrups and studying the others when Liss trotted up on her leggy bay. He turned to stare at her in surprise, but no delight. He apparently said something sharp, for Liss’s face fell. She looked up in a moment and returned a rather bitten-out remark. Ferda leaned toward her and said something else, longer. She jerked her horse away, flushing; the angry color faded in a moment, to be replaced by a thoughtful frown, then a tight smile.
“Now, what was that all about?” Ista wondered aloud.
Foix, sitting at her feet, smirked. “I believe my brother was seeking to display his prowess to Liss, not to compete with hers. I fear he did not handle his surprise well.” He settled back on one elbow with an air of enjoyable interest that did not seem entirely due to the colorful excitement of the upcoming race.
“So why aren’t you down there?” she asked him. “Do your ribs still trouble you?”
“No, lady. But I’m no great rider.” His eyes narrowed with amusement. “I’ll choose my ground, when I do, with more wit.” He was not, Ista suspected, referring to contests in a rural festival.
Under the direction of a pair of shouting organizers, the riders arranged themselves in an uneven, jostling line across the road. Vinyasca’s town divine, a blue-and-white sash wrapped around his waist, stood on the stump and intoned a short blessing to dedicate the race to the goddess, then held up a blue kerchief. His hand dropped. With yells from both riders and onlookers, the horses plunged off.
At first, the horses clashed for position in a heart-stopping melee—one rider fell—but by the time the leaders were partway to the turning point, the line was spreading out. Liss’s bay and Ferda’s black both ran near the front of the pack. Ista squinted anxiously into the distance, lips parted, breath coming faster. When the racers appeared again around the mound of oaks, the two shared a clear and widening lead. Ista’s party all broke into cheers.
Halfway back along the road from the trees, Liss threw a glance over her shoulder at Ferda and his laboring black, then leaned forward low over her horse’s neck. The rangy bay seemed to rise and float over the ground, and the gap between them widened rapidly.
Even Ista found herself cheering then: “Yes! Go! Ha!”
Liss was two dozen horse lengths ahead as she neared the stump. But then, suddenly, she sat bolt upright. Her horse’s stride abruptly shortened; in a few more yards the bay was nearly bouncing in place. Ferda’s foam-flecked black flashed past, and Liss eased her reins and let her mount canter demurely after him. Her animal looked as though it was ready to run another race just like this one, and Ista was reminded that a typical courier leg was fifteen or so miles. The cries of the onlookers took on a decidedly bewildered tone. The rest of the field pelted past the finish point, and the crowd swirled down onto the road.
Foix, one arm wrapped around his knees as he rocked, held his hand over his mouth and choked back sputtering noises.
Ferda was standing in his stirrups, astonished and red with exertion and fury. He was nevertheless fêted as the winner by the dubious locals, who shot many looks over their shoulders at Liss. Liss put her nose in the air and walked her horse past him toward the town and the waiting stables. Ferda looked as though he wanted to fling his blue-and-white garland on the ground in front of her in a rage, but couldn’t so insult the goddess or his hosts.
“If this is a courtship,” said Ista to Foix, “might you not advise your brother on his, ah, method?”
“Not for all the world,” said Foix, who had gained control of his breathing again. Little squeaks still leaked out now and then. “Nor would he thank me if I did. Now, mind you, my lady, I would throw myself between my brother and a Roknari crossbow quarrel without hesitation. In fact, I have. But there must be limits to fraternal self-sacrifice, I think.”
Ista smiled dryly. “Is that the way of it? I see.”
Foix shrugged. “Well, who knows? Time must tell.”
“Indeed.” It reminded Ista quite of old court politics, in miniature. She must advise Liss against creating untoward dissension in her little troop, whether by accident or design. Foix … she wasn’t sure Foix needed anyone’s advice.
Foix scrambled to his feet, eyes alight. “I must go congratulate my brother on his victory. It’s not a moment to be missed.” He turned to help her up from the ground with a panache that would not have been out of place in Cardegoss.
Later in the afternoon, when Liss had returned to Ista’s side, Foix found a wood-chopping contest. He tackled this humble but vigorous exercise with his shirt off, before the ladies’ eyes. He bor
e no serious scars on his muscular torso, though his flesh was slightly mottled still, Ista noted. She suspected his broadsword swing would be as handsome as his work with an ax. But he was either not quite as recovered from his injuries as he’d claimed, or interestingly subtle, for he came in a cheerful second. He clapped the winner on the shoulder, bought the man a congratulatory flagon of ale, and departed whistling.
ISTA HAD NO OPPORTUNITY TO SPEAK ALONE WITH HER HANDMAIDEN till mid-evening. They withdrew after supper to the balcony of her inn room, a choice chamber overlooking the town square. In the paved space below, a feast had given way to music and dancing, illuminated by hundreds of beautiful pierced metal lanterns scattered around the square and hung from the trees in front of the temple, shedding a lacy light. It was not excessively rowdy yet, for the young women were well chaperoned by their families. Later in the evening, when the maidens had all gone in, Ista expected more serious drinking to commence.
Ista settled in a chair brought out for her; Liss leaned on the wooden rail and watched the dancers wistfully.
“So,” said Ista after a time, “what had you and Ferda to say to each other that so inflamed you both, before your race?”
“Oh.” Liss grimaced, turning half around. “Stupid things. He said it was unfair for me to enter because my courier horse was too fine and fit for this country competition. As though his horse was not the finest Cardegoss could yield! And then he said it was not a proper contest for a woman—with half a dozen other women there! A race in the name of the goddess! The men in it only rode on their women’s behalf—he entered in your honor.”
Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion) Page 9
