The Curse of Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Vrese stepped back a half pace; his mouth opened in shock, and hung there. The stunned silence spread out in waves to the back of the crowd, to return in a rising mutter of What? What did she say? I didn’t hear…What? The chief divine’s face drained. The recording secretary looked up with an expression of jolted horror.

  A well-attired man waiting toward the front of the line vented a sharp crack of gleeful laughter; his lips drew back in an expression that had little to do with humor, but much with appreciation of cosmic justice. Beside Cazaril, Lady Betriz bounced on her toes and hissed through her teeth. A trail of choked snickers followed the whispers of explanation trickling back through the mob of townspeople like a small spring freshet.

  The judge switched his glare to the chief divine, and made an odd little abortive jerk of his hand, the bagged offering in it, toward him instead. The divine’s hands opened and clenched again, at his sides. He stared across beseechingly at the enthroned avatar of the goddess. “Lady Iselle,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, not quite lowly enough, “you can’t…we can’t…does the goddess speak to you, in this?”

  Iselle returned, not nearly so lowly, “She speaks in my heart. Doesn’t she in yours? And besides, I asked her to sign me approval by giving me the first flame, and she did.” Perfectly composed, she leaned around the frozen judge, smiled brightly at the next townsman in line, and invited, “You, sir?”

  Perforce, the judge stepped aside, especially as the next man in line, grinning, had no hesitation at all in stepping up and shouldering past.

  An acolyte, jerked into motion by a glare from his superior, hurried forward to invite the judge to step out somewhere and discuss this contretemps. His slight reach toward the offering purse was knifed right through by an icy frown tossed at him by the royesse; he clapped his hands behind his back and bowed the fuming judge away. Across the courtyard, the Provincara, seated, pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, wiped her hand over her mouth, and stared in exasperation at her granddaughter. Iselle merely raised her chin and continued blandly exchanging the goddess’s blessings for the gifts of the quarter-day with a line of suddenly no longer bored nor perfunctory townsmen.

  As she worked her way down through the town’s households, such gifts in kind as chickens, eggs, and a bull-calf were collected outside, their bearers alone entering the sacred precincts to collect their blessing and their new fire. Lady dy Hueltar and Betriz went to join the Provincara on her courtesy bench, and Cazaril took up station behind it with the castle warder, who favored his demure daughter with a suspicious parental frown. Most of the crowd drifted away; the royesse continued cheerfully in her sacred duty down to the last and least, thanking a wood-gatherer, a charcoal burner, and a beggar—who for his gift sang a hymn—in the same even tones as she’d blessed the first men of Valenda.

  THE STORM IN THE PROVINCARA’S FACE DIDN’T BREAK till the whole family party had returned to the castle for the afternoon feast.

  Cazaril found himself leading her horse, as her castle warder dy Ferrej had taken a firm and prudent grip on the lead line of Iselle’s white mule. Cazaril’s plan to quietly absent himself was thwarted when, helped down off her chestnut mare by her servants, the Provincara demanded shortly, “Castillar, give me your arm.” Her grip around it was tight and trembling. Through thinned lips, she added, “Iselle, Betriz, dy Ferrej, in here.” She jerked her head toward the plank doors of the ancestors’ hall, just off the castle courtyard.

  Iselle had left her festal garments at the temple when the ceremonies had concluded, and was merely a young woman in pretty blue and white once more. No, Cazaril decided, watching her decided chin come up again; merely a royesse once more. Beneath that apprehensive surface glowed an alarming determination. Cazaril held the door as they all filed past, including Lady dy Hueltar. When he’d been a young page, Cazaril thought ruefully, his instinct for danger spilling down from on high would have sped him off at this point. But dy Ferrej stopped and waited for him, and he followed.

  The hall was quiet, empty now, though warmly lit by the ranks of candles on the altar that would be allowed to burn all day today until entirely consumed. The wooden benches were polished to a subdued gleam in the candlelight by many pious—or restive—prior occupants. The Provincara stepped to the front of the room, and turned on the two girls, who drew together under her stern eye.

  “All right. Which of you had that idea?”

  Iselle took a half step forward, and gave a tiny curtsey. “It was mine, Grandmama,” she said in almost, but not quite, as clear a voice as in the temple courtyard. She offered after another moment under that dour gaze, “Though Betriz thought of asking the first flame for confirmation.”

  Dy Ferrej wheeled on his daughter. “You knew this was coming up? And you didn’t tell me?”

  Betriz gave him a curtsey that was an echo of Iselle’s, right down to the unbent backbone. “I had understood I was assigned to be the royesse’s handmaiden, Papa. Not anybody’s spy. If my first loyalty was to be to anyone but Iselle, no one ever told me. Guard her honor with your life, you said.” After a moment she added more cautiously, undercutting this fine speech a trifle, “Besides, I couldn’t know it was going to happen till after she had struck the first flame.”

  Dy Ferrej abandoned the young sophist and made a helpless gesture to the Provincara.

  “You are older, Betriz,” said the Provincara to her. “We thought you’d be a calming influence. Teach Iselle the duties of a pious maiden.” Her lips twisted. “As when Beetim the huntsman couples the young hounds to the older ones. Alas that I did not give your upbringing over to him, instead of to these useless governesses.”

  Betriz blinked, and offered another curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”

  The Provincara eyed her, suspicious of concealed humor. Cazaril bit his lip.

  Iselle took a deep breath. “If tolerating injustice and turning a blind eye to men’s tragic and unnecessary damnations are among the first duties of a pious maiden, then the divines never taught it to me!”

  “No, of course not,” the Provincara snapped. For the first time, her harsh voice softened with a shade of persuasion. “But justice is not your task, heart.”

  “The men whose task it was appear to have neglected it. I am not a milkmaid. If I have a greater privilege in Chalion, surely I have a greater duty to Chalion as well. The divine and the good dedicat have both told me so!” She shot a defying look at the hovering Lady dy Hueltar.

  “I was talking about you attending to your studies, Iselle,” Lady dy Hueltar protested.

  “When the divines talked of your pious duties, Iselle,” dy Ferrej added, “they didn’t mean…they didn’t mean…”

  “They didn’t mean me to take them seriously?” she inquired sweetly.

  Dy Ferrej sputtered. Cazaril sympathized. An innocent with the moral advantage, and as feckless and ignorant of her dangers as the new pup the Provincara had compared her to—Cazaril was profoundly thankful that he had no part in this.

  The Provincara’s nostrils flared. “For now, you may both go to your chambers and stay there. I’d set you both to read scriptures for a penance, but…! I will decide later if you will be permitted to come to the feast. Good Dedicat, follow after and make sure they arrive. Go!” She gestured imperiously. As Cazaril made to follow, her sweeping arm stopped in midair, and she pointed firmly downward. “Castillar, dy Ferrej, attend a moment.” Lady Betriz shot a curious glance over her shoulder as she was ushered out. Iselle marched head high, and didn’t look back.

  “Well,” said dy Ferrej wearily after a moment, “we did hope they would become friends.”

  Her young audience removed, the Provincara permitted herself a rueful smile. “Alas, yes.”

  “How old is the Lady Betriz?” Cazaril asked curiously, staring after the closing door.

  “Nineteen,” answered her father with a sigh.

  Well, her age was not quite so disparate from his as Cazaril had thought,
though her experience surely was.

  “I really did think Betriz would be a good influence,” dy Ferrej added. “It seems to have worked the other way around.”

  “Are you accusing my granddaughter of corrupting your daughter?” the Provincara inquired wryly.

  “Say, inspiring, rather,” dy Ferrej said, with a glum shrug. “Terrifying, that. I wonder…I wonder if we should part them?”

  “There would follow much howling.” Wearily, the Provincara seated herself on a bench, gesturing the men to do likewise: “Don’t want a crick in my neck.” Cazaril clasped his hands between his knees and waited her pleasure, whatever it was to be. She must have dragged him along in here for something. She stared thoughtfully at him for a long moment.

  “You have a fresh eye, Cazaril,” she said at last. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Cazaril’s brows climbed. “I’ve had the training of young soldiers, lady. Never of young maidens. I’m quite out of my depth, here.” He hesitated, then spoke almost despite himself. “It looks to me to be a trifle too late to teach Iselle to be a coward. But you might draw her attention to how little firsthand evidence she jumped from. How could she be so sure the judge was as guilty as rumor would have him? Hearsay, gossip? Even some apparent evidence can lie.” Cazaril thought ruefully of the bath man’s assumptions about the witness of his back. “It won’t help for today’s incident, but it might slow her down in future.” He added in a drier voice, “And you might look to be more careful what gossip you discuss in front of her.”

  Dy Ferrej winced.

  “In front of either one of them,” said the Provincara. “Four ears, one mind—or one conspiracy.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Cazaril…you speak and write Darthacan, do you not?”

  Cazaril blinked at this sidewise jink in the conversation. “Yes, my lady…?”

  “And Roknari?”

  “My, ah, court Roknari is a little rusty at present. Granted, my vile Roknari is quite fluent.”

  “And geography? You know the geography of Chalion, of Ibra, of the Roknari princedoms?”

  “Five gods, that I do, my lady. What I haven’t ridden over, I’ve walked, what I haven’t walked, I’ve been dragged across. Or through. I’ve had geography ground into my skin. And I’ve rowed round half the Archipelago at least.”

  “And you write, you cipher, you keep books—you’ve done letters, reports, treaties, logistical orders…”

  “My hand may be a trifle shaky at present, but yes, I’ve done all that,” he admitted with belatedly rising wariness. Where was she going with this interrogation?

  “Yes, yes!” She clapped her hands together; Cazaril flinched at the sharp noise. “The gods have surely landed you upon my wrist. Bastard’s demons take me if I haven’t the wit to jess you.”

  Cazaril smiled bewildered inquiry.

  “Cazaril, you said you sought a post. I have one for you.” She sat back triumphantly. “Secretary-tutor to the Royesse Iselle!”

  Cazaril felt his jaw unhinge. He blinked stupidly at her. “What?”

  “Teidez already has his own secretary, who keeps the books of his chambers, writes his letters, such as they are…it’s time Iselle possessed her own warder, at the gate between her women’s world and the greater one she’ll have to deal with. And besides, none of those stupid governesses have ever been able to handle her. She needs a man’s authority, that’s what. You have the rank, you have the experience…” The Provincara…grinned, was all one could call that horrifying gleeful expression. “What do you think, my lord Castillar?”

  Cazaril swallowed. “I think…I think if you lent me a razor now, for me to cut my throat with, it would save ever so many steps. Please Your Grace.”

  The Provincara snorted. “Good, Cazaril, good. I do so like a man who doesn’t underestimate his situation.”

  Dy Ferrej, who’d at first looked startled and alarmed, eyed Cazaril with new interest.

  “I’ll wager you could direct her mind to her Darthacan declensions. You’ve been there, after all, which none of these fool women have,” the Provincara went on, gaining enthusiasm. “Roknari, too, though we all pray she’ll never need that. Read Brajaran poetry to her, you used to like that, I remember. Deportment—you’ve served at the roya’s court, the gods know. Come, come, Cazaril, don’t look at me like a lost calf. It would be easy work for you, in your convalescence. Eh, don’t imagine I can’t see how sick you’ve been,” she added at his little negating gesture. “You wouldn’t have to answer but two letters a week at most. Less. And you’ve ridden courier—when you rode out with the girls, I wouldn’t have to listen to a lot of wheezing and whining afterward about saddle galls from those women with thighs like dough. As for keeping the books of her chamber—why, after running a fortress, it should be child’s play for you. What say you, dear Cazaril?”

  The vision was at once enticing and appalling. “Couldn’t you give me a fortress under siege, instead?”

  The humor faded in her face. She leaned forward, and tapped him on the knee; her voice dropped, and she breathed, “She will be, soon enough.” She paused, and studied him. “You asked if there was anything you could do to ease my burdens. For the most part, the answer is no. You can’t make me young, you can’t make…many things better.” Cazaril wondered anew how the strange fragile health of her daughter weighed upon her. “But can’t you give me this one little yes?”

  She begged him. She begged him. That was all wrong. “I am yours to command, of course, lady, of course. It’s just…it’s just that…are you sure?”

  “You are not a stranger here, Cazaril. And I am in the most desperate need of a man I can trust.”

  His heart melted. Or maybe it was his wits. He bowed his head. “Then I am yours.”

  “Iselle’s.”

  Cazaril, his elbows on his knees, glanced up and across at her, at the thoughtfully frowning dy Ferrej, and back at the old woman’s intent face. “I…see.”

  “I believe you do. And that, Cazaril, is why I shall have you for her.”

  4

  So it was Cazaril found himself, the next morning, introduced into the young ladies’ schoolroom by the Provincara herself. This sunny little chamber was on the east side of the keep, on the top floor occupied by Royesse Iselle, Lady Betriz, their waiting woman, and a maid. Royse Teidez had chambers for his similar subhousehold in the new building across the courtyard, rather more generously proportioned, Cazaril suspected, and with better fireplaces. Iselle’s schoolroom was simply furnished with a pair of small tables, chairs, a single bookcase half-empty, and a couple of chests. With the addition of Cazaril, feeling overtall and awkward under the low-beamed ceiling, and the two young women, it was as full as it would hold. The perpetual waiting woman had to take her sewing into the next chamber, though the doors were left propped open between them.

  It seemed Cazaril was to have a class, not just a pupil. A maiden of Iselle’s rank would almost never be left alone, and certainly not with a man, even a prematurely aged and convalescent one of her own household. Cazaril didn’t know how the two ladies felt about this tacit arrangement, but he was secretly relieved. Never had he felt more repulsively male—uncouth, clumsy, and degraded. In all, this cheerful, peaceful feminine atmosphere was about as far from a Roknari galley rower’s bench as it was possible for Cazaril to imagine, and he had to swallow a lump of delirious joy at the contrast as he ducked his head under the lintel and stepped inside.

  The Provincara announced him briskly as Iselle’s new secretary-tutor, “Just as your brother has,” a clearly unexpected gift that Iselle, after a blink of surprise, accepted without the least demur. By her calculating look, the novelty and increased status of being instructed by a man was quite pleasing to her. Lady Betriz, too, Cazaril was heartened to note, looked alert and interested rather than wary or hostile.

  Cazaril trusted he appeared scholarly enough to fool the young ladies, the wool merchant’s neat brown gown secured today by the
castle warder’s silver-studded belt without the sword. He’d had the forethought to supply himself with all the books in Darthacan that a fast rummage through the remains of the late provincar’s library could supply, some half dozen random volumes. He dropped them with an impressive thump upon one of the little tables and favored both new pupils with a deliberately sinister smile. If this was to be anything like training young soldiers, young horses, or young hawks, the key was to take the initiative from the first moment, and keep it thereafter. He could be as hollow as a drum, so long as he was as loud.

  The Provincara departed as briskly as she’d arrived. In the interest of pretending he had a plan while devising one, Cazaril started right in by testing the royesse’s command of Darthacan. He had her read a random page from one of the volumes, as it chanced on a topic that Cazaril knew well: mining and sapping fortified lines during sieges. With much help and prompting, Iselle stumbled through three laborious paragraphs. Two or three questions Cazaril put to her in Darthacan challenging her to explicate the contents of what she’d just read left her sputtering and floundering.

  “Your accent is terrible,” he told her frankly. “A Darthacan would find you nearly unintelligible.”

  Her head came up, and she glared at him. “My governess said I was quite good. She said that I had a very melodic intonation.”

  “Yes; you speak like a South Ibran fishwoman hawking her wares. They are very melodic, too. But any Darthacan lordling, and they are all arrogant as wasps about their dreadful tongue, would laugh in your face.” At least, they had in Cazaril’s, once. “Your governess flattered you, Royesse.”

  She frowned across at him. “I take it you do not fancy yourself a flatterer, Castillar?”

  Her tone and terms were a bit more double-leveled than he’d expected. His ironic return bow, from his seat on a chest drawn up to her table’s other side, was pulled shorter and a little less apologetic than he’d intended by the yank of his adhesions. “I trust I am not a complete lout. But if you desire a man to tell you comfortable lies about your prowess, and so fetter any hope of true excellence, I’m sure you may find one anywhere. Not all prisons are made of iron bars. Some are made of feather beds. Royesse.”