Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  He blushed. “My apologies, Royina. I was distraught. I thought to draw you back from death, as you once seemed to do for me.”

  “Illvin?”

  “Yes, Royina?”

  “You did draw me back.”

  “Oh.” He rode along very quietly for a time. But a strange smile crept across his face, and would not go away again.

  At length he looked up and rose in his stirrups, summoning some unimaginable reserve of energy. “Hah,” he whispered. Ista followed his glance. It took her a moment to discern the faint clear smokes of careful fires, marking a camp concealed in the watercourse that opened below them. The fires were not few. They followed the ridge around a slight bend, and yet more of the camp came into view. Hundreds of men and horses, more than hundreds—she could not count their numbers, half-hidden as they were.

  “Oby,” said Illvin in satisfaction. “He made excellent time. Though I thank the gods he was no faster.”

  “Good,” breathed Ista in relief. “I’m done.”

  “Indeed, and we do thank you for your work, without which we would all be dead in some hideous and uncanny fashion by now. I, on the other hand, still have fifteen hundred ordinary Jokonans to remove from around Porifors. I don’t know if Oby meant to wait for dawn, but if we struck more quickly …” His eyes glazed over in a familiar fashion, alternating shrewd glances summing the men below with staring off at nothing; Ista forbore to interrupt.

  A patrol galloped up to them. “Ser dy Arbanos!” cried its astonished officer, waving wildly at Illvin. “Five gods, you’re alive!” The riders formed around them in excited escort and swept them into the part of the camp, marked by tents in the shade, where their commanders had no doubt set up their headquarters.

  A voice rang from the trees, and a familiar form shot from the green shadows. “Foix! Foix! The Daughter be thanked!” Ferda ran toward them; Foix swung from his saddle to embrace his eager brother.

  “What are these men?” Illvin inquired of dy Oby’s officer, nodding toward an unfamiliar company of horsemen in black and green. The riders opened out to reveal a crowd of people approaching on foot, some running, some lumbering, some proceeding more slowly and decorously, all calling out to Ista.

  Ista stared, torn between joy and dismay. “Bastard spare me, it is my brother dy Baocia,” she said in a stunned voice. “And dy Ferrej, and Lady dy Hueltar, and Divine Tovia, and all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LORD DY BAOCIA AND SER DY FERREJ LED THE RUSH TO ISTA’S side. The red stallion laid his ears back, squealed, and snapped his teeth, and both men recoiled several feet.

  “Five gods, Ista,” dy Baocia cried, temporarily diverted, “that horse! Who was mad enough to put you up on such a beast?”

  Ista patted Demon’s neck. “He suits me very well. He belongs to Lord Illvin, in part, but I suspect he may become a permanent loan.”

  “From both his masters, it seems,” murmured Illvin. He glanced across the camp. “Royina—Ista—love, I must report first to March dy Oby.” His expression grew grim. “His daughter is still trapped in Castle Porifors, if the walls hold as I pray.”

  Along with Liss and dy Cabon, Ista reflected, and added her silent prayers to his. She felt the walls yet held, but in truth her only certainty was that Goram still lived; and she’d been mistaken before.

  “With the news we bring,” Illvin continued, “I expect his troop will ride within the hour. I cringe to think what rumors have come to him by now of my brother’s fate. There is much to do.”

  “Five gods speed you. Of your many burdens, I am one the less now. These people here will cosset me to distraction, if I know them.” She added sternly, “You spare some care for yourself, too. Don’t make me come after you again.”

  A grin ghosted across his mouth. “Would you follow me to the Bastard’s hell, dear sorceress?”

  “Without hesitation, now that I know the road.”

  He leaned across his saddlebow and caught her hand, and raised it to his lips. She gripped his hand in turn and bore it to her own lips, and nipped his knuckle secretly, which made his eyes glint. With reluctance, they released each other.

  “Foix,” Illvin called, “attend upon me. Your testimony is urgently required.”

  Dy Baocia turned eagerly to Foix. “Do I have you to thank, young man, for the rescue of my sister?”

  “No, Provincar,” said Foix, giving him a polite salute. “She rescued me.”

  Dy Baocia and dy Ferrej stared at him rather blankly. Ista became conscious of the bizarre picture they must present: Foix, gray with exhaustion, wearing Jokonan gear; Illvin a hollow-eyed, reeking scarecrow in the most elegant of court mourning; herself in rumpled white festival dress splashed with brown blood, barefoot, bruised, and scratched, her escaping hair completing the impression of general dementia.

  “Look after the royina,” Foix said to Ferda, “then come to Oby’s tent. We have strange and great tales to tell.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned to follow Illvin.

  Temporarily unmenaced by Ista’s erratic steed, Ferda came to Demon’s shoulder to help her down. Ista was dizzy with fatigue, but she stayed determinedly upright.

  “See that this dreadful horse is well cared for. He bore Lord Arhys faithfully last night. Your brother rode in that great sortie as well, and endured capture and grievous use. He needs rest, if you can make him take it in this uproar. We have all of us been up since dawn yesterday, through flight and siege and … and worse. Lord Illvin lost a great deal of blood last night. Make sure he gets drink and food immediately, at the least.” She added, after a thoughtful pause, “And if he attempts to ride into battle in his present state, knock him down and sit on him. Although I trust he has more sense.”

  As soon as her horse was led out of range by a soldier of Oby, dy Ferrej pounced on Ista, practically wresting her from Ferda. “Royina! We have been in terror for your safety!”

  And not without cause, in truth. “Well, I am safe now.” Soothingly, she patted his hand gripping her arm.

  Lady dy Hueltar tottered up, arm in arm with Divine Tovia. “Ista, Ista, lovie!”

  Dy Baocia was looking intently after Illvin. “Now that you are all delivered to each other, I think I’d better attend on dy Oby as well.” He managed a distracted smile at Ista. “Yes, yes, good.”

  “Did you bring troops of your own, brother?” Ista asked.

  “Yes, five hundred of horse, all that I could muster in a hurry when these people descended upon me waving your alarming letter.”

  “Then by all means, attend upon Oby. Your guard may well have a chance to earn the coin you pay them. Chalion owes the garrison of Castle Porifors … much, but certainly relief above all, and that as soon as may be.”

  “Ah.” He collected Ferda and dy Ferrej and hurried off after the other men, half in curiosity, half, Ista suspected, in eagerness to escape his importunate entourage.

  The problem of explaining her own adventures to them without sounding like a raving madwoman, she discovered, could be put off—possibly indefinitely—by asking after their own journey. A mere query of “How did you come here so timely?” induced an answer that ran on until they reached dy Baocia’s tents, and longer. The five hundred of horse, Ista found, had been trailed by what seemed a hundred more servants, grooms, and maids, in support of the dozen ladies from the courts of both Valenda and Taryoon who had accompanied Lady dy Hueltar on her self-appointed mission to bring Ista home. Dy Ferrej, more or less in charge of shifting them all, was justly punished, Ista decided. That he had moved them such a distance in a week, instead of a month, was a near miracle in itself, and her respect for him, never low, rose another notch.

  Ista cut though a plethora of plans by requesting a wash, food, and bed, in that order; Divine Tovia, always more practical than most of Ista’s attendants, and with an eye to the blood on her gown, backed her up. The elderly physician managed to run off all but two maids, her own acolyte-assistant, and Lady dy Hueltar from
the tent where she guided Ista for a bath and treatment. Ista had to admit, it was both comfortable and comforting to have those familiar hands about her, applying salve and bandages to her hurts. Tovia’s curved sewing needle, too, was very fine and sharp, and her hands were quick about the wincing task of mending flesh where it was required.

  “What in the world are these bruises?” Divine Tovia inquired.

  Ista craned to see the back of her own thigh where the physician was pointing. Five dark purple spots were spaced around it. Her lips curved up, and she twisted about to spread her own fingers between them.

  “Five gods, Ista,” cried Lady dy Hueltar in horror, “who has dared to handle you so?”

  “Those are from … yesterday. When Lord Illvin rescued me from the Jokonan column on the road. What excellent long fingers he does have! I wonder if he plays any musical instruments. I shall have to find out.”

  “Is Lord Illvin that odd tall fellow who rode in with you?” asked Lady dy Hueltar suspiciously. “I must say, I did not like the very forward way he kissed your hand.”

  “No? Well, he was pressed for time. I shall make him practice, later, until his technique improves.”

  Lady dy Hueltar looked offended, but Divine Tovia, at least, snorted a little.

  Ista was laid down in a tent under a guard of ladies, but rose again to peek out, despite her nightgown, at the sound of many horses thundering out of the camp. It was only late afternoon; on this long summer day Oby’s cavalry would be descending on Porifors with hours of light still left for their work. The timing, Ista thought, was excellent. Maximum confusion, disorder, and dismay would have spread through the Jokonan forces from the dire events of noon, and the chances that competent leadership had yet reemerged—especially from the habits of sullen mindless obedience extracted by Joen—were slight.

  She let herself be coaxed back to bed by those who loved her. Though the Ista they thought they loved, she supposed, was an imaginary one, a woman who existed only in their own minds, part icon, part habit.

  The reflection did not depress her unduly, now that she knew someone who loved the Ista who was real. She fell asleep thinking of him.

  ISTA AWOKE FROM UGLY DREAMS NOT, SHE THOUGHT, ENTIRELY HER own, to the sound of female voices arguing.

  “Lady Ista wants to sleep, after her ordeal,” said Lady dy Hueltar firmly. “I will not have her troubled further.”

  “No,” said Liss in a puzzled tone, “the royina will want the report from Porifors. We started before dawn to bring it to her as swiftly as we could.”

  Ista lumbered up from her sheets. “Liss!” she cried. “In here!” It appeared she had slept the short summer night through; it sufficed.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” said Lady dy Hueltar in aggravation.

  “What?” Liss’s bafflement was genuine; she had not Ista’s years of training in deciphering her now-senior lady-in-waiting’s oblique locutions. Ista translated it handily as I didn’t want to travel again today, and now I’ll have to, drat you, girl.

  A leap from her cot, Ista discovered, wasn’t going to occur. She did manage to lever herself painfully to her feet before the tent flap was thrown back, admitting a level golden light and a grinning Liss. Ista embraced her; she embraced Ista back. The grin and Liss’s presence seemed almost all the report she needed. Porifors is relieved. There were no more devastating deaths last night. The rest might be learned in order, or no order, as it came.

  “Sit,” said Ista, not releasing Liss’s hands. “Tell me everything.”

  “Lady Ista needs to be dressed before receiving petitioners,” said Lady dy Hueltar sternly.

  “Excellent notion,” said Ista. “Do go and find me some clothing to wear. Riding dress.”

  “Oh, Ista, you won’t be riding anywhere today, after all you’ve been through! You need to rest.”

  “Actually,” Liss put in, “March dy Oby has sent some officers to see the camp is broken down and shifted to Porifors as quick as may be. Ferda is waiting with some of your brother’s men to guard you on the way, Royina, as soon as you are ready. Unless you prefer to ride in a cart with the baggage train.”

  “She will surely want to ride in the wagons with us,” said Lady dy Hueltar.

  “Tempting,” Ista lied, “but no. I’ll ride my horse.”

  Lady dy Hueltar sniffed balefully and withdrew.

  Ista continued eagerly to Liss, “Oh, you will laugh at my new horse. It has come to me as the spoils of war, I think, though I may persuade Illvin to make it a court gift, which would amuse him. It’s Illvin’s vile red stallion.”

  “The one that possessed the stray elemental?”

  “Yes; it has conceived a sudden adoration for me, and abases itself in the most appalling unhorselike fashion. You will find it quite reformed, or if you don’t, let me know, and I’ll put the fear of its god in it again. But say on, dear Liss.”

  “Well, the castle and town are secured, and the Jokonans driven off or taken—most of them fled north, but there may be some stragglers still lurking.”

  “Or just plain lost,” said Ista dryly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Liss snickered. “We have captured Prince Sordso and his whole retinue, which has pleased Lord Illvin and March dy Oby no end. They say the prince has gone mad. Is it true you ensorcelled him to hack up the dowager princess?”

  “No,” said Ista. “All I did was remove the sorcery that was preventing him from doing so. I rather think it was a wild impulse on his part, soon regretted. Joen was dead before his sword struck her; the Bastard took her soul. I wonder if it would be a relief or a regret to Sordso to know that? I should probably tell him in any case. Go on. What of Lady Cattilara, and our stalwart divine?”

  “Well, we all watched from the walls as the Jokonans marched you off. And then it got all quiet for a little, and then we could hear some terrible uproar at the those big green tents, but we could not make out what was happening. Lady Cattilara surprised us all. After you and Lord Illvin were made hostage, or so we all thought, she rose from her bed. She drove her ladies to defend the walls, since almost all of the men were too sick to stand by then—it seems they make a game of archery here, and the Jokonan sorcerers’ spells had not destroyed their sporting bows. Some of the ladies proved quite good shots. They had not the power to penetrate mail, but I saw Lady Catti herself put an arrow right through a rude Jokonan officer’s eye. Learned dy Cabon stood with her—she swore that Porifors would not fall while she was still its chatelaine. Me, I threw rocks—if you fling one from a high enough tower, it hits quite hard by the time it lands on its target, even if you don’t have a strong throwing arm.

  “We could see the Jokonans were just probing, but we bit them till they bled nonetheless. I think we could not have held for long against a determined assault, but we discouraged them from attempting the walls at once—and then it was too late, for the march of Oby’s forces struck and swept them away. Lady Catti was quite splendid when she opened the gates to her father. I thought she would break down and weep when he embraced her, for he did, but instead she was very stern.”

  “What of Goram?”

  “He helped hold the walls with us. He was exhausted and feverish this morning, which is why Lord Illvin did not dispatch him to you, he told me to tell you. Since if you are riding to Porifors this morning, it made no sense to send Goram twice ten miles to meet you at almost the same time anyway.”

  “Excellent thinking. Yes. I will ride at once.” She looked around; Lady dy Hueltar was bustling back into the tent leading a maid carrying an armload of clothing. “Ah, good.”

  Ista’s satisfaction died as she saw the dress the maid was shaking out for her; a fine layered silk, suitable for a court function, in widow’s dark green. “This is not riding dress.”

  “Of course not, dear Ista,” said Lady dy Hueltar. “It is for you to wear to breakfast with us all.”

  “I shall take a cup of tea and a bite of bread, if such may be had in
this camp, and ride at once.”

  “Oh, no,” said Lady dy Hueltar, in a tone of earnest correction. “The meal is being prepared. We are all so looking forward to celebrating having you with us again, just as it should be.”

  The feast would take two hours, Ista estimated, maybe three. “One mouth the less will not be missed. You all must eat anyway before you break camp; it will not be wasted.”

  “Now, Lady Ista, do have sense.”

  Ista’s voice dropped. “I ride. If you will not bring me the clothing I asked for, I will send Liss through the camp to beg me some. And if none is to be had, I’ll ride in my nightgown. Or naked, if I must.”

  “I’d share my clothes with you, Royina,” Liss offered at once, clearly bemused by that last image.

  “I know you would, Liss.” Ista patted her shoulder.

  Lady dy Hueltar drew herself up in offense, or possibly defense. “Lady Ista, you mustn’t be so wild!” Her voice grew hushed. “You wouldn’t want people thinking you had been overtaken by your old troubles again, after all.”

  Ista was tempted, for a dangerous moment, to test just how much sorcerous power the Bastard had endowed her with. But the target was too small and unworthy, pitiable in her way. A natural sycophant, Lady dy Hueltar had made her way in the world most comfortably for the past two decades as companion to the old Provincara, enjoying an imagined indispensability and the status lent her by her august patron. It was clear she wished that pleasant existence to continue; and it could, if only Ista would move into her mother’s place and take up her mother’s life. All just as before, indeed.

  Ista turned to the maid. “You, girl—fetch me some riding clothes. White if they may be had, or whatever color, but in any case, not green.”

  The girl’s mouth opened in panic; she glanced back and forth between Ista and Lady dy Hueltar, torn between conflicting authorities. Ista’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why must you even go to Porifors?” asked Lady dy Hueltar. Her seamed face worked with distress, close to tears. “With your brother’s troop to escort us, we could surely start back to Valenda right from here!”