Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “So that’s what I felt when I saw her,” whispered Foix, sounding much enlightened. “Another demon.”

  “I witnessed everyone’s testimony,” avowed Liss loyally. “It’s all true. We even questioned the demon, though that wasn’t much use. When Lord Arhys was struck in the fight this morning by that Jokonan lancer, the cut appeared on Lord Illvin’s body. It was dreadfully uncanny.” She added reflectively, “Bled like a stuck pig, too. Well, so he would—they do stick pigs with lances, I think.”

  Ista glanced at the sun and measured the shortening shadows in the stone courtyard. “In a while, you will speak with all concerned, and bear witness as well. But dy Cabon, listen. I do not know why your god has brought me to this house of woe. I do not know what, or who, can be saved out of this ghastly tangle. I do know that at some point, one way or another, that demon has to be driven out of Lady Cattilara. It is wild to escape, with her body by preference, but it will kill her in order to fly in another’s if it gains the chance. Arhys is beginning to deteriorate, body and, I fear, mind as well. Worse—I suspect his soul may already be sundered. Lord Illvin is dying slowly, being drained by this sorcery of more life than his body can replace. When he dies, his brother ends, and Cattilara, I believe, will be swallowed by her demon.”

  She stopped, drew breath, looked around at the shocked faces staring back at her. Not one, she realized with a chill, was staring at her as though she had gone mad. They were all staring at her as though she was going to tell them what to do next.

  Booted footsteps echoed in the archway. Ista looked up to see Lord Arhys enter, observe her and her little court, and approach. He stopped and gave her a bow, then stood taken rather aback by the staggered, searching looks he was collecting from his new guests.

  “Lord Arhys.” Ista’s nod acknowledged the bow. “I have been apprising my escort’s acting captain and my spiritual conductor of the true state of affairs here at Porifors. It is necessary that they know, that they may guard and advise me to best effect.”

  “I see.” He forced a grimace into an unfelt smile. He paused a moment as if considering what to say for himself—apologize for being dead, perhaps?—then, apparently defeated by the quandary, passed on to more immediate affairs. “My scouts are dispatched, but not yet returned. Our prisoners were not very cooperative, but it appears their patrol was the screen of some larger force, given the task of cutting communications on the road between Porifors and Oby. And that the attack on dy Gura and the divine was premature in some fashion that we were unable to extract from them, for all the howls we squeezed out. We are taking precautions—topping our cisterns, warning the town, sending riders to alert outlying areas to be on guard. I have heard nothing of such a Jokonan force from my own men along the border, but … I have been much distracted from my duties these past few days.”

  Ista pursed her lips on a worried exhalation. “An attack from Jokona? Why now?”

  He shrugged. “A delayed reprisal for the death of their princess? We had expected one before this. Or … a much-less-delayed attempt to regain a great prize, lately lost.” His gaze on her was grave.

  Despite the heat, Ista shivered. “I would not chose to bring down such trouble on any host, least of all you. Perhaps … I should remove to Oby.” Run away? A beguilingly sensible cowardice, that. Leave this castle, leave this tangle, leave these anguished and benighted souls to sink under the accumulating weight of their misjudgments, misery, and love … she could run away. She could.

  “Perhaps.” He gave her an ambiguous nod. “But only if we can be sure we have secured the road, or else we would just be delivering you into Jokonan hands, a gift already unwrapped. I must ride out this afternoon—I can’t stop now. You must see that,” he added with peculiar earnestness. “You must not stop me now.”

  “Since I know not how,” she sighed, “you are safe from that chance for the moment. Other chances, I cannot speak for.”

  “I shall be forced to take my rest, shortly—”

  “Illvin must be allowed to eat, especially now,” she said, alarmed.

  “I do not wish otherwise. But I would see his new wound, first.”

  “Ah. That would be wise, I think.”

  As he seemed to expect her company, she rose and followed him up the stairs, her people trailing in unconcealed curiosity. The entry of so many persons alarmed Goram, whom Ista tried to reassure with a few soft words; he seemed more consoled by Liss’s kindly pat on his shoulder. At the march’s direction, he unwrapped Illvin’s new bandage. Arhys’s inspection was brief, experienced, and grim. Foix and dy Cabon peered with diffident interest at the bloody tear in Arhys’s tunic as he bent over his silent brother. When the march turned away, they crowded up to the bedside to get a whispered account from Liss.

  Arhys’s hand clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt. He murmured to Ista, standing with him a little apart, “I confess, I was not altogether sorry to find those Jokonan soldiers out on my road this morning. I think some part of me was starting to hope for a better death. Less … ignominious, than the first, less shameful to my father’s honor. I see there is a problem with this plan.”

  “Yes,” said Ista.

  “I feel as though I am lost in some dark and evil maze, and cannot find my way out.”

  “Yes,” said Ista. “But … no longer alone in the labyrinth, at least.”

  His smile flickered; he squeezed her hand. “Indeed. My good company grows apace since the gods guided you here. That is a greater comfort than I had expected.”

  The meal tray arrived. Lord Arhys excused himself; Ista trusted he would find the safe harbor of his bed before his midday collapse overtook him. She ushered her own people out again, to give Goram time to do his necessary work, but she directed dy Cabon to stay, assist, and observe.

  Leaning on the gallery railing, she watched Lord Arhys stride out of sight below, trailing the subtle smoke of his eroding soul. She rubbed her palm, still tingling where he had gripped it.

  I could run away. No one else here can, but I could.

  If I chose to.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FOIX, DISQUIET IN HIS EYES, LEANED HIS ELBOWS ON THE balustrade by Ista’s side to watch Arhys exit. “Remarkable man,” he observed. “If that Jokonan sorceress’s purpose was to remove Porifors from the strategic map, paralyze its strength as a fortress … she may have achieved some success even in her failure, to have crippled such a commander. Or worse than crippled, the Daughter forbid.”

  Liss came over to rest against the rail on Ista’s other side, listening and frowning in worry.

  “What did you sense of that demon, when you met Lady Cattilara in the forecourt?” Ista asked Foix.

  He shrugged. “Nothing very clearly. I felt … prickly. Uneasy.”

  “You did not see it, riding within her soul like a shadow?”

  “No, Royina.” He hesitated. “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah … can you see mine?” Absently, his hand rubbed his belly.

  “Yes. It looks like the shadow of a bear, hiding in a cave. Does it speak to you?”

  “Not … exactly. Well, a little. Not in words, but I can sense it, if I sit quietly and pay attention. It is much calmer and happier than it was at first. Tamer.” He managed a lopsided grin. “I have been training it to do some tricks, when the divine does not harass me.”

  “Yes, I saw the one on the road. Very clever of you both, but very dangerous. Do you have any sense of what it was, or where it was, before it found you?”

  “A bear, wandering in the wild. A bird before that, I think, for neither the bear nor I could ever have viewed the mountains from above, and I now seem to have such a memory. Confused, but I do not think I dreamed it. Swallowing huge insects, ugh. Except that they weren’t ugh. Ugh! Before that … I don’t know. I think it does not remember being newborn, any more than I remember being a mewling infant. It had existence, but not wits as such.”

  I
sta straightened, stretching her aching back. “When we return to Lord Illvin’s chamber, study his attendant, Goram. I believe he once held a demon, as you now do.”

  “The groom was a sorcerer? Ha. Well, why not? If a demon can lodge in a bear, why not in a simpleton?”

  “I do not think he was always a simpleton. I suspect he may have once been a cavalry officer of Roya Orico’s army, before he was taken prisoner and enslaved unransomed. Study Goram closely, Foix. He may be your mirror.”

  “Oh,” said Foix, and shrank a little. Liss’s frown deepened.

  At length the carved door opened, and Goram gestured them all back inside. The sheets had been changed, the bloodied linen robe whisked away, and Illvin dressed for company in his tunic and trousers, his hair tied back. Ista was obscurely grateful that he was made so presentable before her companions. Goram fetched the chair for her, and with little bobbing bows seated her by Illvin’s bedside.

  Dy Cabon reported to Ista in an awed whisper, “I watched the wounds close up, just now. Extraordinary.”

  Lord Illvin gingerly rubbed his right shoulder and smiled across at Ista. “I seem to have missed a busy morning, Royina, except not quite. Learned dy Cabon has been telling me of his alarming ride. I am glad your lost company is returned to you. I hope your heart is eased.”

  “Much eased.”

  Dy Cabon took the stool at the foot of the bed, a precarious perch for his bulk. Ista introduced Foix, and gave a short, blunt précis of his encounter with the bear, by way of preamble to describing his performance on the road. Goram hovered anxiously on the bed’s other side, putting bites to Illvin’s mouth while he listened.

  Illvin, frowning, fended off a piece of bread, and said, “That such a raiding party should come so close to Porifors indicates either a young Jokonan hothead swaggering for show, or something moving behind. What say our scouts?”

  “Dispatched, not yet returned,” said Ista. “Lord Arhys prepares, he tells us, and has sent out warnings to the countryside.”

  “Good.” Illvin eased back against his pillows. “Five gods help me, the days flit past me like hours. I would be out there riding now!”

  She added, “I told your brother to wear his mail.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Yes.” His mouth set, his left hand going again to probe his elusively wounded shoulder. He stared down at his feet, absorbed in who-knew-what reflections. Ista wondered if his mind circled as dizzily as her own.

  She drew a long breath. “Goram.”

  He paused in his spooning. “Lady?”

  “Were you ever in Rauma?”

  He blinked in bewilderment. “Don’t know the place.”

  “It’s a town in Ibra.”

  He shook his head. “We were at war with Ibra, before. Weren’t we? I know I was in Hamavik,” he offered as if in compensation. “Lord Illvin found me there.”

  “Your soul shows demon scars, dreadful ones. And yet … if you had been a sorcerer during your captivity, commanding the resources of a demon, you ought to have been able to escape, or otherwise improve your lot.”

  Goram looked daunted, as though being chastised for some lapse.

  Ista opened a palm to soothe him, and continued, “There are … too many demons about. As if some great outbreak had occurred, the divine told me, is that not so, Learned?”

  Dy Cabon rubbed his chins. “It’s surely beginning to appear so.”

  “Has the Temple mapped the sightings? Are they coming from one place, or from every place at once?”

  A thoughtful look came over his suety face. “I have not heard from every place, but of the reports I have heard, there do seem to have been more toward the north, yes.”

  “Hm.” Ista stretched her tight shoulders again. “Lord Illvin, dy Cabon has also told me that the divine of the Bastard in Rauma was a saint of his order, gifted with the ability to draw demons from their mounts and return them, somehow, miraculously, to the god. The Jokonan raiders slew her.”

  Illvin breathed out through pursed lips. “That’s an unfortunate loss just now.”

  “Yes. Else he would have hauled Foix straight to her, and not come here instead. But now I’m wondering if it may have been more than a mischance. When I was captive, riding in the Jokonan column’s baggage train, I saw a strange sight. A high-ranking officer, perhaps the commander himself, rode along tied to his saddle like a prisoner, or a fainting wounded man. His face was slack … he could not control his drooling, and he mumbled, without words, or sometimes cried out as if in fear, or wept. I thought perhaps a head blow had destroyed his reason, but he bore no bandages or bloodstains whatsoever. I now wonder, if I’d had my second sight then—what great gouges I might have seen within his soul.”

  Illvin blinked at the disturbing word-picture. His wits leapt ahead to the conclusion Ista had not yet stated aloud. “Might he have been another sorcerer in the service of Jokona, do you think? Commanding that column?”

  “Perhaps. What if the saint of Rauma did not die without a fight, or wholly in vain? What if it was she who’d ripped his demonic powers out by the roots, even as she fell to common violence? At the start of a campaign, do we not burn the enemy’s crops, fill their wells, deny them their resources? I think a saint who could banish demons at will would be a powerful resource, against an enemy who commanded, perhaps, more such sorcerers. Maybe more than those two. Why Rauma, you asked me yesterday. What if the saint’s murder, which we took for an incidental evil of the raid, was instead its main purpose?”

  “But demons do not readily work together,” objected dy Cabon. “One sorcerer, high in the Jokonan court, could do much damage, were he of evil bent. Well, or of loyal bent,” he conceded fairly. “To Jokona, that is. But to call up or command a legion of demons—that is the vocation of the Bastard alone. Unimaginable hubris in a man, and doubly so for a Quadrene. Also, such a perilous concentration of demons would generate chaos all around it.”

  “War gathers on these borders,” said Ista. “A greater concentration of chaos I can hardly imagine.” She rubbed her forehead. “Lord Illvin, you have studied the court of Jokona, I suspect. Tell me something of it. What are Prince Sordso’s principal advisors and commanders like?”

  He eyed her with shrewd interest. “It’s mostly still the cadre of older men he inherited from his father. His first chancellor was his paternal uncle, though he’s lately died. The present general of Jokona has served for years. Sordso’s own friends and boon companions are a much younger lot, but he hasn’t had a chance to put any into positions of power. Too soon to tell if any of them will prove fitted for war or government, though they seem to run largely to rich men’s sons with too little chance, or drive, to learn their own trades. Arhys and I have speculated which will move up when the old men finally start to die off.

  “Oh, and his mother, Princess Joen—Dowager Princess Joen. She was Sordso’s regent, along with his uncle and the general, until he came of age. I wanted to probe down that way when she took the reins a few years ago, but Arhys was seized with a fit of deference for her sex and sad widowhood. And anyway, in the midst of what proved to be Roya Orico’s final illness and death, we feared Cardegoss might not be able to rescue us from our mistakes. Or worse, might fail to support a victory.”

  “Tell me more of Joen,” said Ista slowly. “Did you ever meet her? If Umerue had held to her initial plan, she would have become your mother-in-law.”

  “Daunting thought. It is a measure of Umerue’s powers that such a drawback never troubled my mind. I’ve never met Joen face-to-face. She is some ten or fifteen years older than I am, and had more or less disappeared into the women’s quarters by the time I was old enough to notice the politics of the princedom. I will say, she was the most continually pregnant princess in recent Jokonan history—certainly did her duty by her husband. Though she was not entirely fortunate in her children, for all her efforts. Out of a dozen or so, only three sons, and two of those died young. Some miscarriages and stillbirths, too, I think. Se
ven girls lived to marry—Sordso has family alliances all over the Five Princedoms. Oh, and she takes her descent from the Golden General most seriously. Makes up for the disappointments of her husband and son, I suppose—or maybe it creates them, I don’t know.”

  The Golden General, the Lion of Roknar. For a time, back in Roya Fonsa’s reign, the brilliant Quadrene leader had looked to unite the Five Princedoms for the first time in centuries, and roll like a tide over the weak Quintarian royacies. But he had died untimely at the age of thirty, destroyed by aging Roya Fonsa in a work of death magic, during a night of towering self-immolation. The rite that killed both leaders had saved Chalion from the Roknari threat, but also spilled the curse that would haunt Fonsa’s heirs down to Ista’s day, and beyond. The Golden General had left only renewed political disorder in the princedoms for legacy, and a few young children, Joen the least and youngest.

  No surprise, that she might grow up regarding him as a lost hero. But if Joen could not follow in her great father’s striding steps, barred by her sex from war and politics, might she have at least sought to re-create him in a son? All those pregnancies … Ista, who had experienced two, did not underestimate their brutal drain on a woman’s body and energy.

  Ista frowned. “I was thinking about what Catti’s demon said. She is coming, it cried, as if this were some dire event. I had taken it to refer to me, for I believe my god-touched state is a consternation to demons, but—I wasn’t coming. I was already there. So that makes no sense, really. Not that much of what it had to say made sense.”

  Illvin remarked thoughtfully, “If someone in the court of Jokona is indeed dipping into sorcery for the purpose of moving against Chalion, I must say, it is not going all that well for him. Both his demon-agents—sad Umerue and the column’s commander—were lost in the first two trials of their prowess, if your guess is good.”