The Curse Of Chalion Part 34

"Then surely he must be getting tired tired," sighed Cazaril. "Some plums to his sons would soften him. Family loyalty is his weakness, his blind side." Or so the curse suggested, which deformed all virtue to an obverse vice. "Ease him out, but show favor to his clan...pull his teeth slowly and gently, and it's done." He glanced up at Betriz, listening intently; yes, she could be counted on to report this debate to Iselle, later.

In the other chamber, Iselle and Bergon rose. She laid her hand on his proffered arm, and they both stole shy glances at their partner; two persons looking more pleased with each other, Cazaril was hard put to imagine. Although when Iselle entered the reception room with her fiance and glanced around triumphantly at the a.s.sembled company, she looked quite as pleased with herself. Bergon's pride had a slightly more dazzled air, though he spared Cazaril, scrambling up from his seat, a rea.s.suringly determined nod.

"The Heiress of Chalion," said Iselle, and paused.

"And the Heir of Ibra," Bergon put in.

"Are pleased to announce that we will take our marriage oaths," Iselle continued, "before the G.o.ds, our n.o.ble Ibran guests, and the people of this town..."

"In the temple of Taryoon at noon upon the day after tomorrow," Bergon finished.

The little crowd broke into cheers and congratulations. And, Cazaril had no doubt, calculations of the speed at which a column of enemy troops might ride; to which the answer worked out, Not that fast. Not that fast. United and mutually strengthened, the two young leaders could move at need thereafter in close coordination. Once Iselle was married out from under the curse, time was on their side. Every day would gain them more support. Unstrung by the most profound relief, Cazaril sank back into his chair, grinning with the pain of the anguished cramp in his gut. United and mutually strengthened, the two young leaders could move at need thereafter in close coordination. Once Iselle was married out from under the curse, time was on their side. Every day would gain them more support. Unstrung by the most profound relief, Cazaril sank back into his chair, grinning with the pain of the anguished cramp in his gut.

25.

In a palace frantic with preparations, Cazaril found himself the next day the only man with nothing to do. Iselle had arrived in Taryoon with little more than the clothes she rode in; all of Cazaril's correspondence and books of her chambers were still in Cardegoss. When he attempted to wait upon her and inquire what duties she desired of him, he found her rooms crammed with mildly hysterical tire-women being directed by her Aunt dy Baocia, all charging in and out with piles of garments in their arms.

Iselle fought her head out through a swaddling of silks to gasp, "You've just ridden over eight hundred miles on my behalf. Go rest rest, Cazaril." She held her arm out obediently while a woman tried a sleeve upon it. "No, better-compose two letters for my uncle's clerk to copy out, one to all the provincars of Chalion, and one to every Temple archdivine, announcing my marriage. Something they can read out to the people. That should be a nice, quiet task. When you have all seventeen-no, sixteen-"

"Seventeen," put in her aunt, from the vicinity of her hem. "Your uncle will want one for his chancellery records. Stand straight."

"When all are made ready, set them aside for me and Bergon to sign tomorrow after the wedding, and then see that they are sent out." She nodded firmly, to the annoyance of the tire-woman trying to adjust her neckline.

Cazaril bowed himself out before he was stuck with a pin, and leaned a moment over the gallery railing.

The day was exquisitely fair, promising spring. The sky was a pale-washed blue, and mild sunlight flooded the newly paved courtyard, where gardeners were carting in orange trees in full flower in tubs, rolling them out to stand around the now-bubbling fountain. He diverted a pa.s.sing servant and had a writing table brought out and set in the sun for himself. And a chair with a thick, soft cushion, because while a lot of those eight hundred miles were now a blur in his mind, his backside seemed to remember them all. He leaned back with the warm light falling on his face, and his eyes closed, composing his periods, then bent forward to scribble. Dy Baocia's clerk carried off the results for copying out in a much fairer hand than Cazaril's soon enough, and then he just leaned back with his eyes closed, period.

He didn't even open them for the approaching footsteps, till a clank on his table surprised him. He looked up to find a servant, directed by Lady Betriz, setting down a tray with tea, a jug of milk, a dish of dried fruit, and bread glazed with nuts and honey. She dismissed the servant and poured the tea herself, and pressed the bread upon him, sitting on the edge of the fountain to watch him eat it.

"Your face looks very gaunt again. Haven't you been eating properly?" she inquired severely.

"I have no idea. What lovely sunshine this is! I hope it holds through tomorrow."

"Lady dy Baocia thinks it will, though she said we might have rain again by the Daughter's Day."

The scent of the orange blossoms pooled in the shelter of the court, seeming to mix with the honey in his mouth. He swallowed tea to chase the bread and observed in idle wonder, "In three days' time it will be exactly a year since I walked into the castle of Valenda. I wanted to be a scullion."

Her dimple flashed. "I remember. It was last Daughter's Day eve that we first met each other, at the Provincara's table."

"Oh, I saw you before that. Riding into the courtyard with Iselle and...and Teidez." And poor dy Sanda And poor dy Sanda.

She looked stricken. "You did? Where were you? I didn't see you."

"Sitting on the bench by the wall. You were too busy being scolded by your father for galloping to notice me."

"Oh." She sighed, and trailed her hand through the fountain's little pool, then shook off the cold drops with a frown. The Daughter of Spring might have breathed out today's air, but it was still Old Winter's water. "It seems a hundred years ago, not just one."

"To me, it seems an eye blink. Time...outruns me now. Which explains why I wheeze so, no doubt." He added quietly after a moment, "Has Iselle confided to her uncle about the curse we seek to break tomorrow?"

"No, of course not." At his raised brows, she added, "Iselle is Ista's daughter. She cannot speak of it, lest men say she is mad, too. And use it as an excuse to seize...everything. Dy Jironal thought of it. At Teidez's interment, he never missed a chance to pa.s.s some little comment on Iselle to any lord or provincar in earshot. If she wept, wasn't it too extravagant; if she laughed, how odd that she should do so at her brother's funeral; if she spoke, he whispered that she was frenetic; if she fell silent, wasn't she grown strangely gloomy? And you could just watch watch men begin to see what he told them they were seeing, whether it was there or not. Toward the end of his visit there, he even said such things in her hearing, to see if he could frighten and enrage her, and then accuse her of becoming an unbalanced virago. And he circulated outright lies, as well. But I and Nan and the Provincara were onto his little game by then, and we warned Iselle, and she kept her temper in his company." men begin to see what he told them they were seeing, whether it was there or not. Toward the end of his visit there, he even said such things in her hearing, to see if he could frighten and enrage her, and then accuse her of becoming an unbalanced virago. And he circulated outright lies, as well. But I and Nan and the Provincara were onto his little game by then, and we warned Iselle, and she kept her temper in his company."

"Ah. Excellent girl."

She nodded. "But as soon as we heard the chancellor's men were coming to fetch her back to Cardegoss, Iselle was frantic to escape Valenda. Because once he'd got her close-confined, he could put about any story he pleased of her behavior, and who would there be to deny it? He might get the provincars of Chalion to approve the extension of his regency for the poor mad girl for as long as he pleased, without ever having to raise a sword." She took a breath. "And so she dares not mention the curse."

"I see. She is wise to be wary. Well, the G.o.ds willing it will soon be over."

"The G.o.ds and the Castillar dy Cazaril."

He made a little warding gesture and took another sip of tea. "When did dy Jironal learn I was gone to Ibra?"

"I don't think he guessed anything till after the cortege reached Valenda, and you weren't to be found there. The old Provincara said he received some reports from his Ibran spies-I think that's partly why, anxious as he was to get back and block dy Yarrin from Orico, he would not leave Valenda till he had his own household troops installed there."

"He sent a.s.sa.s.sins to intercept me at the border. I wonder if he thought I would just be returning alone, with the next round of negotiations? I don't think he expected Royse Bergon so soon."

"No one did. Except Iselle." She rubbed her fingers across the fine black wool of her vest-cloak lying over her knee. Her next glance up at him was uncomfortably penetrating. "While you have spent yourself trying to save Iselle...have you discovered how to save yourself?"

He was silent a moment, then said simply, "No."

"It's...it's not right."

He glanced vaguely around the deliciously sunny court, avoiding her eyes. "I like this nice new building. It has no ghosts in it at all, do you know?"

"You're changing the subject." Her frown deepened. "You do that a lot when you don't want to talk about something. I just realized."

"Betriz..." He softened his voice. "Our feet were set on different paths from the night I called down death upon Dondo. I can't go back. You are going to be living, and I am not. We can't go on together, even if...well, we just can't."

"You don't know how much time you're given. It could be weeks. Months. But if an hour is all the gift the G.o.ds give us, all the more insult to the G.o.ds to scorn it."

"It's not the shortage of time." He shifted miserably. "It's the abundance of company. Think of us alone together-you, me, Dondo, the death demon...am I not a horror to you?" His tone grew almost pleading. "I a.s.sure you I'm a horror to me!"

She glanced at his gut, then stared off across the courtyard, her jaw set mulishly. "I do not believe that being haunted is catching. Do you think I lack the courage?"

"Never that," he breathed.

She addressed her feet in a growl. "I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was."

"What, didn't you read old Ordol's book while you were helping Iselle cipher those letters? He claims that the G.o.ds, and we, are both right here all the time, a shadow's thickness apart. We've no distance to cross at all to get to each other." I can see their world from where I sit, in fact. I can see their world from where I sit, in fact. So Ordol was right. "But you cannot force the G.o.ds. It's only fair, I suppose. They cannot force us, either." So Ordol was right. "But you cannot force the G.o.ds. It's only fair, I suppose. They cannot force us, either."

"You're doing it again again. Twisting the topic."

"What are you planning to wear tomorrow? Shall it be pretty? You're not allowed to outshine the bride, you know."

She glared at him.

Up on the gallery, Lady dy Baocia popped out of Iselle's chambers and called down to Betriz a complicated question involving what seemed to Cazaril a great many different fabrics. Betriz waved back and rose reluctantly to her feet. She flung rather sharply over her shoulder, as she made for the staircase, "Well, that may all be so, and you as doomed as you please, but if I'm thrown from a horse tomorrow and break my neck, I hope you feel a fool!"

"More of a fool," he murmured to the swish of her retreating skirts. The bright courtyard was a blur in his disobedient eyes, and he rubbed them clear with a hard, surrept.i.tious swipe of his sleeve.

THE WEDDING DAY DAWNED AS FAIR AS HOPED. The orange-blossom-scented courtyard was crowded as it could hold when Iselle, attended by her aunt and Betriz, appeared at the top of the gallery stairs. Cazaril tilted his face up and squinted happily. The tire-women had performed heroic feats with silks and satins, garbing her in all the shades of blue proper for a bride. Her blue vest-cloak was trimmed with as many Ibran pearls as could be found in Taryoon, patterned as a frieze of stylized leopards. A smattering of applause broke out as, moving a little stiffly in all her finery, she smiled and descended the steps. Her hair gleamed like a river of treasure in the sunlight. Two dy Baocia girl-cousins managed her train, under the sporadic direction of their mother. Even the curse seemed to wrap about her like some trailing sable robe. But not for much longer... But not for much longer...

Cazaril obediently fell in beside Provincar dy Baocia, and so found himself helping to lead the parade afoot through twisting streets to Taryoon's nearby temple. Through a wonder of coordination, Bergon's procession from March dy Huesta's palace arrived at the temple portico simultaneously with Iselle's. The royse wore the reds and oranges of his age and s.e.x, and an expression of determined bravery that would not have been out of place on a man storming a bastion. Palli and his dozen soldier-brothers in court dress of their order had joined the royse's party along with Foix and Ferda, so as not to let the Ibrans look, and perhaps feel, so outnumbered. Despite the short notice, Cazaril calculated that over a thousand persons of rank crowded into the temple's round center court; and what seemed the entire citizenry of Taryoon lined the routes of the royesse and royse. A festival mood had clearly seized the city.

The two processions coalesced in a swirl of color and entered the sacred precincts. Taryoon had good temple singers, and the enthusiastic choir made the walls fairly ring with their songs. The young couple, led by the archdivine, entered each of the temple's lobes in turn. They knelt and prayed upon new carpets for the blessing of each G.o.d: to the Daughter and the Son, in thanks for their protection in life's journey so far; and to the Mother and the Father, in hopes of pa.s.sing into their company in due course.

By theology and tradition, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had no official place in a ceremony of marriage, but all prudent couples sent a placating gift anyway. Cazaril and dy Tagille had been commissioned to play holy couriers today. They received the offerings from Bergon and Iselle and, along with a small but earnestly loud detachment of singing children, marched around the outside of the main building to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's tower. A smiling, white-robed divine stood ready to receive them inside at the altar.

The royal couple had been forced to borrow clothes, money, food, and housing for this day, but Bergon did not shortchange the G.o.d; dy Tagille laid down a fat purse of Ibran gold along with his prayers. Iselle sent a promise, written in her own hand, to undertake payment of roof repairs upon the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's tower in Cardegoss when she became royina there. Cazaril added a gift of his own-the blood-tainted rope of pearls, all the residue of Dondo's broken string that had not fallen to the brigands. Such a difficult and cursed item was, absolutely without question, the G.o.d's just affair, and Cazaril breathed a sigh of relief when it was off his hands at last.

Proceeding back along the walkway from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's tower behind the slightly wobbly choir of urchins, Cazaril glanced at the crowd and caught his breath. A man, middle-aged-around him hung a subdued gray light like a winter's day. When Cazaril closed his eyes, the faint light still glowed there. He looked again with his first sight. The man wore the black-and-gray robes and red shoulder braid of an officer of the Taryoon Munic.i.p.al Court-probably a petty judge. And petty saint of the Father, as Clara had been of the Mother in Cardegoss...?

The man was staring back at Cazaril in openmouthed astonishment, his face drained. There was no chance for them to exchange any word here, as Cazaril was drawn back into the ceremonies inside the high, echoing court of the temple, but Cazaril resolved to ask the archdivine about him at the first opportunity.

At the central fire, the newly married royse and royesse each made a short speech, then the archdivine, Cazaril, and everyone else paraded back through the banner-hung streets to dy Baocia's new palace. There, a grand feast was laid on to fill the afternoon and the celebrators to happy repletion. The food was all the more amazing for having been a.s.sembled in just two days; Cazaril suspected supplies had been robbed from the Daughter's Day festival, coming up. But he didn't think the G.o.ddess would begrudge them. As princ.i.p.al guests, both Cazaril and the archdivine had places to hold, so he didn't get a chance for private speech until the after-dinner music and dancing drew the younger people off to the courtyards. At that point, the two men he sought found him.

The petty judge stood at the archdivine's shoulder looking unnerved. Cazaril and he exchanged a sidelong look as the archdivine performed a hasty introduction.

"My lord dy Cazaril-may I present to you the Honorable Paginine. He serves the munic.i.p.ality of Taryoon..." The archdivine lowered his voice. "He says you are G.o.d-touched. Is this so?"

"Alas, yes," sighed Cazaril. Paginine nodded in an I thought so I thought so sort of way. Cazaril glanced around and drew the pair aside. It was hard to find a private spot; they ended up in a tiny inner court off one of the palace's side entrances. Music and laughter carried through the darkening air. A servant lit torches in wall brackets and returned inside. Overhead, high clouds moved across the first stars. sort of way. Cazaril glanced around and drew the pair aside. It was hard to find a private spot; they ended up in a tiny inner court off one of the palace's side entrances. Music and laughter carried through the darkening air. A servant lit torches in wall brackets and returned inside. Overhead, high clouds moved across the first stars.

"Your colleague the archdivine of Cardegoss knows all about me," Cazaril told the archdivine of Taryoon.

"Oh." The archdivine blinked and looked vastly relieved. Cazaril thought it was a misplaced confidence, but he elected not to rob it from him. "Mendenal is an excellent fellow."

"The Father of Winter has given you some gift, I see," Cazaril said to the petty judge. "What is it?"

Paginine ducked his head nervously. "Sometimes-not every time-He permits me to know who is lying in my justiciar's chamber, and who is telling the truth." Paginine hesitated. "It doesn't always do as much good as you'd think."

Cazaril vented a short laugh.

Paginine brightened visibly to both Cazaril's inner and outer eye, and smiled dryly. "Ah, you understand."

"Oh, yes."

"But you, sir..." Paginine turned to the archdivine with a troubled look. "I said G.o.d-touched, but that hardly describes what I'm seeing. It...it almost hurts hurts to look at him. Three times since I was given the sight I have met others who are also G.o.d-afflicted, but I've never seen anything like him." to look at him. Three times since I was given the sight I have met others who are also G.o.d-afflicted, but I've never seen anything like him."

"Saint Umegat in Cardegoss said I looked like a burning city," Cazaril admitted.

"That's..." Paginine eyed him sidewise. "That's well put."

"He was a man of words." Once. Once.

"What is your gift?"

"I, uh...I think I am am the gift, actually. To the Royesse Iselle." the gift, actually. To the Royesse Iselle."

The archdivine touched his hand to his lips, then hastily signed himself. "So that explains the stories circulating about you!"

"What stories?" said Cazaril in bewilderment.

"But Lord Cazaril," the judge broke in, "what is that terrible shadow hanging about Royesse Iselle? That is no G.o.dly thing! Do you see it, too?"

"I'm...working on it. Getting rid of that ugly thing seems to be my G.o.d-given task. I think I'm almost done."

"Oh, that's a relief." Paginine looked much happier.

Cazaril realized he wanted nothing so much as to take Paginine aside to talk shop. How do you deal with these matters? How do you deal with these matters? The archdivine might be pious, perhaps a good administrator, possibly a learned theologian, but Cazaril suspected he didn't understand the discomforts of the saint trade. Paginine's bitter smile told all. Cazaril wanted to go get drunk with him, and compare complaints. The archdivine might be pious, perhaps a good administrator, possibly a learned theologian, but Cazaril suspected he didn't understand the discomforts of the saint trade. Paginine's bitter smile told all. Cazaril wanted to go get drunk with him, and compare complaints.

To Cazaril's embarra.s.sment, the archdivine bowed low to him, and said in an awed, hushed voice, "Blessed Sir, is there anything I can do for you?"

Betriz's question echoed in his mind, Have you discovered how to save yourself? Have you discovered how to save yourself? Maybe you couldn't save yourself. Maybe you had to take turns saving each other..."Tonight, no. Tomorrow...later in the week, there is a personal matter I should like to wait upon you about. If I may." Maybe you couldn't save yourself. Maybe you had to take turns saving each other..."Tonight, no. Tomorrow...later in the week, there is a personal matter I should like to wait upon you about. If I may."

"Certainly, Blessed Sir. I am at your service."

They returned to the party. Cazaril was exhausted, and longed for bed, but the courtyard below his chamber door was full of noisy revelers. A breathless Betriz asked him once to dance, from which exercise he smilingly excused himself; she didn't lack for partners. Her gaze checked him often, as he sat watching from the wall and nursing his watered wine. He did not lack for company, as a string of men and women struck up friendly conversations with him, angling for employment in the future royina's court. To all of them he returned courteous but noncommittal replies.

The Ibran lords were collecting Chalionese ladies rather as spilled honey collected ants, and looking very happy indeed. Halfway through the evening, Lord dy Cembuer arrived, completing their company and their delight. The Ibrans exchanged tales of their respective journeys, to the awe and fascination of their eager Chalionese listeners. To Cazaril's intense political pleasure, Bergon was cast as the hero of this romantic adventure, with Iselle no less as heroine for her night ride from Valenda. As appealing unifying myths went, this one was going to beat dy Jironal's feeble fable of Poor Mad Iselle all hollow, Cazaril rather thought. And And our our tale is true! tale is true!

At last came the hour and the ceremony Cazaril had been breathlessly awaiting, where Bergon and Iselle were conducted up to their bedchamber. Neither, Cazaril was pleased to note, had drunk enough to become inebriated. Since his own wine had somehow grown less watered as the evening progressed, he found himself a little tongue-tied when the royse and royesse called him up to the foot of the staircase to give and receive ceremonial kisses of thanks upon their hands. Moved, he signed himself and called down hopeful blessings on their heads. The solemn grateful intensity of their return gazes discomfited him.

Lady dy Baocia had arranged a small choir to sing prayers to waft the couple on their way upstairs; the crystal voices served to suppress the ribaldry to manageable proportions. Iselle was no more than beautifully blushing and starry-eyed when she and Bergon leaned over the railing to give smiling thanks to all, and throw down flowers.

They disappeared into the candlelit glow of their suite, and the doors swung shut behind them. Two of dy Baocia's officers took up station on the gallery to guard their repose. In a little while, most of the tire-women and attendants emerged, including Lady Betriz. She was instantly carried off by Palli and dy Tagille for more dancing.

The revels looked to continue till dawn, but to Cazaril's relief a misty rain began to sift down out of the chilling sky, driving the musicians and dancers out of his courtyard and indoors to the adjoining building. Slowly, his hand heavy on the railing, Cazaril climbed the stairs to his own chamber, around the gallery corner from the royse and royesse's. My duty is done. Now what? My duty is done. Now what?

He scarcely knew. A vast moral terror seemed lifted from his shoulders. Only he would live and die by his choices-and mistakes-now. I refuse to regret. I will not look back I refuse to regret. I will not look back. A moment of balance, on the cusp of past and future.

He rather thought he would look up the little judge again tomorrow. The man's company might well relieve his loneliness.

ACTUALLY, I'M NOT NEARLY LONELY ENOUGH, he thought not much later as Dondo's incoherent obscene bellows, released by their hour of ascendance, came roaring up to his inward ear. The sundered ghost was more wild with fury tonight than Cazaril had ever experienced it, its last vestiges of intelligence and sanity shredding away in its rage. Cazaril could imagine why, and grinned through his agony as he rolled on his bed, curled around the ghastly pulsing pain in his belly.

He almost blacked out, then forced himself up, and to consciousness, horrified by the possibility that the fiendishly aroused Dondo might try to take over his body while he was still alive in it and use it for some vile a.s.sault upon Iselle and Bergon. He writhed on the floor in something resembling convulsions, choking back the screams and filth that tried to fly from his mouth, no longer sure whose whose words they were. words they were.

When the attack pa.s.sed, he lay panting on the cold boards, his nightgown rucked up around himself, his fingernails torn and b.l.o.o.d.y. He had vomited, and lay in it. He touched his wet beard to find spittle flayed to foam hanging around his lips. His stomach-or had that grotesque out-bulging been a dream?-had returned to its former mild distension, though his whole abdominal sheet still ached and quivered like torn muscles after some overtorqued exertion.

I can't go on like this much longer. Something had to give way-his body, his sanity, his breath. His faith. Something.

He rose, and cleaned up the floor, and washed himself at his basin and found a clean dry shirt for a nightdress, then straightened his sweat-stained twisted sheets, lit all the candles in the room, and crawled back into bed. He lay eyes wide, devouring the light.

AT LENGTH, THE SOUNDS OF SERVANTS' MURMURS and quiet footsteps along the gallery told him the palace was awakening. He must have dozed, for his candles were burned out, and he didn't remember them guttering. Gray light seeped in under his door and through his shutters. and quiet footsteps along the gallery told him the palace was awakening. He must have dozed, for his candles were burned out, and he didn't remember them guttering. Gray light seeped in under his door and through his shutters.