The Curse Of Chalion Part 36

Iselle folded her hands in her lap and frowned fiercely. "Then have them make ready. We will keep the predawn vigil of prayers for the Daughter's Day and attend the procession as we had planned. Uncle, Lord dy Palliar, if it please you send out what men you can find to ride in all directions for news of dy Jironal's movements. And then we'll see what new information we have by tomorrow night, and take a final decision then."

The two men bowed, and hurried out; Iselle bade Cazaril stay a moment.

"I did not wish to argue with my uncle," she said to him in a tone of doubt, "but I think Valenda is a distraction. What do you think, Cazaril?"

"From the point of view of the roya and royina of Chalion-Ibra...it does not command a position of geographic importance. Whoever may hold it."

"Then let it be a sink for dy Jironal's forces instead of our own. But I suspect my uncle will be difficult about it."

Bergon cleared his throat. "The road to Valenda and the road to Cardegoss run together for the first stage. We could put it about that we were making for Valenda, but then strike for Cardegoss instead at the fork."

"Put it about to who?"

"Everyone. Pretty nearly. Then whatever spies dy Jironal has among us will send him haring off in the wrong direction."

Yes, actually, this was was the son of the Fox of Ibra...Cazaril's brows twitched up in approval. the son of the Fox of Ibra...Cazaril's brows twitched up in approval.

Iselle thought it over, then frowned. "It works only if my uncle's men will follow us."

"If we lead, they'll have no choice but to follow us, I think."

"My hope is to avoid a war, not start one," said Iselle.

"Then not not marching up to a town full of the chancellor's forces makes sense, don't you think?" said Bergon. marching up to a town full of the chancellor's forces makes sense, don't you think?" said Bergon.

Iselle smiled mistily, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek; he touched the spot in mild wonder. "We shall both both take thought until tomorrow," she announced. "Cazaril, start that letter toward my brother Orico all the same, as if we meant to sit tight here in Taryoon. Perchance we shall overtake it on the road and deliver it ourselves." take thought until tomorrow," she announced. "Cazaril, start that letter toward my brother Orico all the same, as if we meant to sit tight here in Taryoon. Perchance we shall overtake it on the road and deliver it ourselves."

WITH DY B BAOCIA'S AND THE ARCHDIVINE'S GUIDANCE, Cazaril found no lack of eager volunteers in town or temple to take the royesse's letter to Cardegoss. Men seemed to be flocking to the royal couple's side. Those who'd missed the wedding itself were now pouring into town for the Daughter's Day celebration tomorrow. All that youth and beauty acted as a powerful talisman upon men's hearts; the Lady of Spring's season of renewal was being strongly identified with Iselle's impending reign. The trick would be to get the governance of Chalion on a more even footing while the mood held, so that it might still stand strong in less happy hours. Surely no witness here in Taryoon would ever quite forget this time of hope; it would still linger in their eyes when they looked at an older Iselle and Bergon.

Thus Cazaril oversaw a party of a dozen grave men climb into their saddles at a time of night when most men were climbing into their beds. He gave the official doc.u.ments into the hands of a senior divine, a sober lord who had risen high in the Order of the Father. The March dy Sould rode with them, as Bergon's witness and spokesman. The earnest amba.s.sadors clattered out of the temple plaza, and Palli walked Cazaril back to dy Baocia's palace and wished him good night.

The little distracting flurry of action fading in his mind, Cazaril's steps grew heavy again as he climbed the stairs of his courtyard gallery. The weight of the curse was a secret burden dragging down all bright hopes. A younger Orico had started out his reign just as eager and willing as Iselle, a dozen years ago. As if he'd believed then that if only he applied enough enough effort, goodwill, steady virtue, he could overcome the black blight. But it had all gone wrong.... effort, goodwill, steady virtue, he could overcome the black blight. But it had all gone wrong....

There were worse fates than becoming Iselle's dy Lutez, Cazaril reflected. He might become Iselle's dy Jironal dy Jironal. How much frustration, how much corrosion could a loyal man endure before going mad, watching such a long slow drain of youth and hope into age and despair? And yet, whatever Orico had been, he had held on long enough for the next generation to gain its chance. Like some doomed little hero holding back a dike of woe, and drowning while the others escaped the tide.

Cazaril readied himself for bed, and his nightly attack, but Dondo was surprisingly quiescent. Exhausted? Recouping his forces? Waiting...Despite that malevolent presence and promise, Cazaril slept at last.

A SERVANT WOKE HIM AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN AND SERVANT WOKE HIM AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN AND led him by candlelight down into the courtyard, where the royal couple's inner household was to have its holy vigil. The air was chill and foggy, but a few faint stars directly overhead promised a fair dawning soon. Ibran-style prayer mats had been arranged around the central fountain, and each person took their station upon them, on knees or p.r.o.ne as they were so moved; Iselle and Bergon knelt side by side. Lady Betriz placed herself between the royesse and Cazaril. Dy Tagille and dy Cembuer, yawning, hurried in to join them on the outer ring of rugs, with some half a dozen other persons of lesser rank. A divine from the temple led a short prayer aloud, then invited all to meditate upon the blessings of the turning season. All over Taryoon, winter's fires were being extinguished. When all was in readiness, the last candles were blown out. A profound darkness and silence descended. led him by candlelight down into the courtyard, where the royal couple's inner household was to have its holy vigil. The air was chill and foggy, but a few faint stars directly overhead promised a fair dawning soon. Ibran-style prayer mats had been arranged around the central fountain, and each person took their station upon them, on knees or p.r.o.ne as they were so moved; Iselle and Bergon knelt side by side. Lady Betriz placed herself between the royesse and Cazaril. Dy Tagille and dy Cembuer, yawning, hurried in to join them on the outer ring of rugs, with some half a dozen other persons of lesser rank. A divine from the temple led a short prayer aloud, then invited all to meditate upon the blessings of the turning season. All over Taryoon, winter's fires were being extinguished. When all was in readiness, the last candles were blown out. A profound darkness and silence descended.

Quietly, Cazaril laid himself p.r.o.ne upon his rug, arms outstretched. He told over the couple of spring prayers he knew three times each, but then gave up trying to fill his mind with rote words to keep his thoughts out. If he let his thoughts run their course, perhaps some silence would follow. And in it he might hear...what?

He changed the subject, Betriz had charged, when the answers were too difficult for him. He'd tried to do so to the G.o.ds. He hadn't fooled them either, apparently.

Ista had been given her chance to lift the curse, and failed; and had failed, it seemed, for her generation. If he failed, he suspected he would not be allowed to go around to try again. So would Iselle or Bergon or both get to be the new Orico, holding back the tide until they foundered, to create the next chance?

They will be vastly unlucky in their children. He knew it, suddenly, with a cold clarity. The whole of their scheme for peace and order rode upon the hope of a strong, bright heir to follow them both. They would pour themselves until empty into children miscarried, dead, mad, exiled, betrayed...

I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was.

He knew where it was. It was on the other side of every living person, every living creature, as close as the other side of a coin, the other side of a door. Every soul was a potential portal to the G.o.ds. I wonder what would happen if we all opened up at once? I wonder what would happen if we all opened up at once? Would it flood the world with miracle, drain heaven? He had a sudden vision of saints as the G.o.ds' irrigation system, like the one around Zagosur; a rational and careful opening and closing of sluice gates to deliver each little soul-farm its just portion of benison. Except that this felt more like floodwaters backed up behind a cracking dam. Would it flood the world with miracle, drain heaven? He had a sudden vision of saints as the G.o.ds' irrigation system, like the one around Zagosur; a rational and careful opening and closing of sluice gates to deliver each little soul-farm its just portion of benison. Except that this felt more like floodwaters backed up behind a cracking dam.

Ghosts were exiles upon the wrong border, people turned inside out. Why didn't it work the other way around? What would it be like to be an anti-ghost of flesh let loose in a world of spirit? Would one be frustratingly invisible to most spirits, impotent there, as ghosts were invisible to most men?

And if I can see ghosts sundered from their bodies, why I can't see them when they're still in their bodies? Had he ever tried? How many people were ranged around him right now? He closed his eyes and tried to see them in the dark with his inner sight. His senses were still confused by matter; somewhere in the outer rank of prayer rugs, someone started to snore, and was nudged awake with a startled grunt by a snickering companion. If only it worked that way, it would be like seeing through a window into heaven. Had he ever tried? How many people were ranged around him right now? He closed his eyes and tried to see them in the dark with his inner sight. His senses were still confused by matter; somewhere in the outer rank of prayer rugs, someone started to snore, and was nudged awake with a startled grunt by a snickering companion. If only it worked that way, it would be like seeing through a window into heaven.

If the G.o.ds saw people's souls but not their bodies, in mirror to the way people saw bodies but not souls, it might explain why the G.o.ds were so careless of such things as appearance, or other bodily functions. Such as pain? Was pain an illusion, from the G.o.ds' point of view? Perhaps heaven was not a place, but merely an angle of view, a vantage, a perspective.

And at the moment of death, we slide through altogether. Losing our anchor in matter, gaining...what? Death ripped a hole between the worlds. Death ripped a hole between the worlds.

And if one death ripped a little hole in the world, quickly healed, what would it take to rip a bigger hole? Not a mere postern gate to slip out of, but a wide breach, mined and sapped, one that holy armies might pour in through?

If a G.o.d died, what kind of hole would it rip between earth and heaven? What was the Golden General's blessing-curse anyway, this exiled What was the Golden General's blessing-curse anyway, this exiled thing thing from the other side? What kind of portal had the Roknari genius opened for himself, what kind of channel had he been...? from the other side? What kind of portal had the Roknari genius opened for himself, what kind of channel had he been...?

Cazaril's swollen belly cramped, and he rolled a little sideways to give it ease. I am a most peculiar locus at present. I am a most peculiar locus at present. Two exiles from the world of spirit were trapped inside his flesh. The demon, which did not belong here at all, and Dondo, who should have left but was anch.o.r.ed by his unrelinquished sins. Dondo did not desire the G.o.ds. Dondo was a clot of self-will, a leaden plug, digging into his body with claws like grappling hooks. If not for Dondo, he could run away. Two exiles from the world of spirit were trapped inside his flesh. The demon, which did not belong here at all, and Dondo, who should have left but was anch.o.r.ed by his unrelinquished sins. Dondo did not desire the G.o.ds. Dondo was a clot of self-will, a leaden plug, digging into his body with claws like grappling hooks. If not for Dondo, he could run away.

Could I?

He imagined it...suppose this lethal anchor were suddenly and-ha-miraculously removed. He could run away...but then he'd never know how it might have worked out. That Cazaril. If only he'd hung on another day, another mile, he might have saved the world. But he quit just an hour too soon... That Cazaril. If only he'd hung on another day, another mile, he might have saved the world. But he quit just an hour too soon... Now, Now, there there was a d.a.m.nation to make the sundered ghosts seem a faint quaint amus.e.m.e.nt. A lifetime-an eternity?-of second-guessing himself. was a d.a.m.nation to make the sundered ghosts seem a faint quaint amus.e.m.e.nt. A lifetime-an eternity?-of second-guessing himself.

But the only way ever to know for certain certain was to ride it out all the way to his destruction. was to ride it out all the way to his destruction.

Five G.o.ds, I am surely mad. I believe I would limp all the way to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l for that frightful curiosity's sake.

Around him, he could hear the others breathing, the occasional little rustle of fabric. The fountain burbled gently. The sounds comforted him. He felt very alone, but at least it was in good company.

Welcome to sainthood, Cazaril. By the G.o.ds' blessings, you get to host miracles! The catch is, you don't get to choose what they are....

Betriz had it exactly backward. It wasn't a case of storming heaven. It was a case of letting heaven storm you. Could an old siege-master learn to surrender, to open his gates?

Into your hands, O lords of light, I commend my soul. Do what you must to mend the world. I am at your service.

The sky was brightening, turning from Father Winter's gray to the Daughter's own fine blue. In the shadowed court, Cazaril could see the shapes of his companions begin to shade and fill with the light's gift of color. The scent of the orange blossoms hung heavily in the dawn damp, and more faintly, the perfume of Betriz's hair. Cazaril pushed back up onto his knees, stiff and cold.

From somewhere in the palace, a man's bellow split the air, and was abruptly cut off. A woman shrieked.

27.

Cazaril put a hand to the pavement, shoving himself to his feet, and pushed back his vest-cloak from his sword hilt. All around him, the others were rising and looking about in alarm. shoving himself to his feet, and pushed back his vest-cloak from his sword hilt. All around him, the others were rising and looking about in alarm.

"Dy Tagille." Bergon motioned to his Ibran companion. "Go see."

Dy Tagille nodded and departed at a run.

Dy Cembuer, his right arm still in a sling, clenched and unclenched his left hand, awkwardly freed his sword hilt, and began striding after him. "We should bar the gate."

Cazaril glanced around the courtyard, and at the tiled archway. Its decorative wrought-iron gate swung wide after dy Tagille. Was there another entrance? "Royesse, Royse, Betriz, you must not get trapped in here." He ran after dy Cembuer, his heart already pounding. If he could get them out before the- A frantic page pelted through as dy Cembuer reached the archway. "My lords, help, armed men have broken into the palace!" He looked wildly over his shoulder.

And here they are. Two men, swords out, ran in the page's track. Dy Cembuer, trying to push the gate shut with his sword in his left hand, barely ducked the first blow. Then Cazaril was upon them. His first swing was wild, and his target parried it with a clang that echoed around the court.

"Get out!" he screamed over his shoulder. "Over the roofs if you have to!" Could Iselle climb in her court dress? He could not look to see if he was obeyed, for his opponent recovered and bore in hard. The bravos, soldiers, whatever they were, wore ordinary street clothes, no identifying colors or badges-the better to infiltrate the city in little groups, mixed in with the festival crowd, no doubt.

Dy Cembuer slashed his man. A heavy return blow landed on his broken arm, and he whitened and fell back with a m.u.f.fled cry. Another soldier appeared around the corner and ran toward the archway, wearing the Baocian colors of green and black, and for a moment Cazaril's heart lifted in hope. Until he recognized him as Teidez's suborned guard captain-growing ever more expert in betrayal, apparently.

The Baocian captain's lips drew back as he saw Cazaril, and he gripped his sword grimly, moving in beside his comrade. Cazaril had neither breathing s.p.a.ce nor a hand free to try to close the gate on them again, and besides, dy Cembuer's opponent had fallen in the path. Cazaril did not dare fall back. This narrow choke point forced them to come at him one at a time, the best odds he was likely to get today. His hand was growing numb from the ringing blows transmitted up his blade into his hilt, and his gut was cramping. But his every gasping breath bought another stride of running time for Bergon and Iselle and Betriz. One step, two steps, five steps...Where was dy Tagille? Nine steps, eleven, fifteen...How many men were coming up after these? His blade hacked a piece out of his first attacker's jaw, and the man reeled back with a b.l.o.o.d.y cry, but it only left the guard captain with a better angle for attack. The man still wore Dondo's green ring. It flashed as his sword darted and parried. Forty steps. Fifty...

Cazaril fought in an exaltation of terror, so hard-pressed to defend himself that the supernatural dangers of a successful thrust of his own, of the death demon tearing his soul out of his body along with his dying victim's, scarcely seemed to apply. Cazaril's world narrowed; he no longer sought to win the day, or this fight, or his life, but merely another stride. Each stride a little victory. Sixty...something...he was losing count. Begin again. One. Two. Three... One. Two. Three...

I am probably going to die now. Twice was no charm. He howled inside with the waste of it, mad with regret that he could not die Twice was no charm. He howled inside with the waste of it, mad with regret that he could not die enough enough. His arm was shaking with fatigue. This gate wanted a swordsman, not a secretary, but the royesse's private holy vigil had included only the few n.o.bles. Was no one coming up behind him in support? Surely even the old servants could grab something and throw it...Twenty-two...

Could he fall back across the courtyard to the stairs? Was the royal party gone up the stairs yet? He threw a frantic glance backward, a mistake, for he lost his rhythm; with a scree scree of metal, the captain's sword snaked his from his tingling grip. His blade clattered across the stone, spinning. The Baocian bore Cazaril violently backward through the archway and knocked him to the pavement. Half a dozen attackers surged through the gate after the captain and spread out across the courtyard; a couple of them, prudent and experienced, kicked him in pa.s.sing to keep him down. He still didn't know who they were, but he had no doubt of metal, the captain's sword snaked his from his tingling grip. His blade clattered across the stone, spinning. The Baocian bore Cazaril violently backward through the archway and knocked him to the pavement. Half a dozen attackers surged through the gate after the captain and spread out across the courtyard; a couple of them, prudent and experienced, kicked him in pa.s.sing to keep him down. He still didn't know who they were, but he had no doubt whose whose they were. they were.

Coughing, he rolled on his side in time to see dy Jironal, swearing, stride through the gate in the wake of another half dozen men. Dy Cembuer was still down, bent in on himself, teeth clenched in agony. Were Iselle and Bergon safe away? Down a servants' stair, over the roof tiles? Pray the G.o.ds they had not panicked and barricaded themselves in their chambers...Dy Jironal headed toward the stairs to the gallery, where a little knot of his men waited to make a concerted rush.

"Martou!" Cazaril bellowed, wrenching over and up onto his knees.

Dy Jironal swung round as though spun on the end of a rope. "You!" At his motion, the Baocian guard captain and another soldier grasped Cazaril by the arms, bending them up behind him, and dragged him to his feet.

"You are too late!" Cazaril called. "She's wed and bedded, and there's no way you can undo it now. Chalion owns Ibra at the fairest price ever paid, and all the country celebrates its good fortune. She is the Child of Spring and the delight of the G.o.ds. You can't win against her. Give over! Save your life, and the lives of your men."

"Wed?" snarled dy Jironal. "Widowed, if needs be. She is a mad traitor and the wh.o.r.e of Ibra and accursed, and I'll not have it!" He whirled again toward the stairs.

"You're the wh.o.r.e, Martou! You sold Gotorget for Roknari money that I refused, and you sold me to the galleys to stop my mouth!" Cazaril glared around frantically at the hesitating troop. Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven... Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven... "This liar sells his own men. Follow him, and you risk betrayal the first moment he smells profit!" "This liar sells his own men. Follow him, and you risk betrayal the first moment he smells profit!"

Dy Jironal turned again, drawing his sword. "I'll stop your mouth, you miserable fool! Hold him up up."

Wait, no- The two men holding Cazaril jerked a little apart, their eyes widening, as dy Jironal began to stride forward, twisting for a mighty two-handed swing. "My lord, it's murder," faltered the man holding Cazaril's left arm. The beheading arc was blocked by Cazaril's captors, and dy Jironal changed in mid-career to a violent low thrust, lunging forward with all the weight of his fury behind his arm.

The steel pierced silk brocade and skin and muscle and drove through Cazaril's gut, and Cazaril was nearly jerked off his feet with the force of it.

Sound ceased. The sword was sliding through him as slowly as a pearl dropped in honey, and as painlessly. Dy Jironal's red face was frozen in a rictus of rage. On either side of Cazaril, his captors bent and leaned away, mouths creeping open on startled cries that never emerged.

With a yowl of triumph that only Cazaril heard, the death demon coursed up the sword blade, leaving it red-hot in its wake, and into dy Jironal's hand. With a scream of anguish, a black syrup that was Dondo poured after. Crackling blue-white sparks grew around dy Jironal's sword arm like ivy twining, and then spiraled around his whole body. Slowly, dy Jironal's head tilted back, and white fire came from his mouth as his soul was uprooted from him. His hair stood on end, and his eyes widened and boiled white. The driven sword still moved with his falling weight, and Cazaril's flesh sizzled around it. White and black and red whirled together, braided round each other, and flowed away in no direction. Cazaril's perception was drawn into the twisting cyclone's wake, up out of his body like a rising column of smoke. Three deaths and a demon all bound together. They flowed into a blue Presence... Presence...

Cazaril's mind exploded.

He opened outward, and outward, and outward still, till all the world lay below him as if seen from a high mountain. But not the realm of matter. This was a landscape of soul-stuff; colors he could not name, of a shattering brilliance, bore him up upon a glorious turbulence. He could hear all the minds of the world whispering, a sighing like wind in a forest-if one could but distinguish, simultaneously and separately, the song of each leaf. And all the world's cries of pain and woe. And shame and joy. And hope and despair and aspiration...A thousand thousand moments from a thousand thousand lives poured through his distending spirit.

From the surface below him, little bubbles of soul-color were boiling up one by one and floating into a turning dance, hundreds, thousands, like great raindrops falling upward...It is the dying, pouring in through the rents of the worlds into this place. Souls gestated by matter in the world, dying into this strange new birth. Souls gestated by matter in the world, dying into this strange new birth. Too much, too much, too much... Too much, too much, too much... His mind could not hold it all, and the visions burst from him like water falling through his fingers. His mind could not hold it all, and the visions burst from him like water falling through his fingers.

He'd once thought of the Lady of Spring as a sort of pleasant, gentle young woman, in his vague and youthful conceptualizations. The divines and Ordol had honed it scarcely further than to a mental picture of a nice immortal lady. This overwhelming Mind listened to every cry or song in the world at once. She watched the souls spiral up in all their terrible complex beauty with the delight of a gardener inhaling the scent of Her flowers. And now this Mind turned Her attention fully upon Cazaril.

Cazaril melted, and was cupped in Her hands. He thought She drank him, siphoning him out of the violent concatenation of the dy Jironal brothers and the demon, who shot away elsewhere elsewhere. He was blown from Her lips again, back down in a tightening spiral through the great slash in the world that was his death, and once again into his body. Dy Jironal's sword blade was just emerging from his back. Blood bloomed around the metal point like a rose.

And now to work, the Lady whispered. Open to me, sweet Cazaril Open to me, sweet Cazaril.

Can I watch? he asked tremulously. he asked tremulously.

Whatever you can bear, is permitted.

He sank back in a languid ease, as the G.o.ddess flowed through him into the world. His lips curved up in a smile, or started to; his fleshly body was as sluggish as those of the men around him in the courtyard. He seemed to be sinking to his knees. Dy Jironal's corpse had not yet finished falling to the pavement, although his dead hand had spasmed from his sword hilt. Dy Cembuer was lifting himself upon his good arm, his mouth opening upon a cry that was going to eventually become, Cazaril! Cazaril! Some men were throwing themselves p.r.o.ne. Some were starting to run. Some men were throwing themselves p.r.o.ne. Some were starting to run.

The G.o.ddess drew the curse of Chalion like thick black wool into Her hands. Lifting it from Iselle and Bergon, somewhere in the streets of Taryoon. From Ista in Valenda. From Sara in Cardegoss. From all the land of Chalion, mountain to mountain, river to plain. Cazaril could not sense Orico in the dark fog. The Lady spun it out again through Cazaril. As it twisted through him into the other realm, its darkness fell away, and then he wasn't sure if it was a thread or a stream of bright clean water, or wine, or something even more wonderful.

Another Presence, solemn and gray, waited there, and took it up. And took it in. And sighed in something like relief, or completion, or balance. I think it was the blood of a G.o.d. I think it was the blood of a G.o.d. Spilled, soiled, drawn up again, cleaned, and returned at last... Spilled, soiled, drawn up again, cleaned, and returned at last...

I don't understand. Was Ista mistaken? Did I miscount my deaths?

The G.o.ddess laughed. Think it through... Think it through...

Then the vast blue Presence poured out of the world through him like a river thundering over a waterfall. The beauty of a triumphal music he knew he would never quite remember, till he came to Her realm again, cracked his heart. The great rent drew closed. Healed. Sealed.

And, abruptly as that, it all was gone.

THE CRACK OF THE STONE PAVEMENT HITTING HIS knees was his first returning sensation. Desperately, he held himself upright, sitting on his heels, so as not to wrench the sword blade around in his flesh. The hilt and a handspan of bright blade hung below his downward-turning gaze, driven at a crooked upward angle into his stomach just below and to the left of his navel. The point seemed to come out somewhere to the right of his spine, and higher. knees was his first returning sensation. Desperately, he held himself upright, sitting on his heels, so as not to wrench the sword blade around in his flesh. The hilt and a handspan of bright blade hung below his downward-turning gaze, driven at a crooked upward angle into his stomach just below and to the left of his navel. The point seemed to come out somewhere to the right of his spine, and higher. Now Now came the pain. As he drew his first shuddering breath, the weapon bobbed a trifle. The stink of cauterized flesh a.s.sailed his nostrils, mixed with a celestial perfume like spring flowers. He trembled with shock and cold. He tried to hold very still. came the pain. As he drew his first shuddering breath, the weapon bobbed a trifle. The stink of cauterized flesh a.s.sailed his nostrils, mixed with a celestial perfume like spring flowers. He trembled with shock and cold. He tried to hold very still.

He had a distressing urge to giggle. That would hurt. More...

Not all the scorched-meat smell was from him. Dy Jironal lay before him. Cazaril had seen corpses burned from the outside in-never before from the inside out. The chancellor's hair and clothes smoked a little, but then went out without catching to flame.

Cazaril's attention was arrested by a pebble that lay on the pavement near his knee. It was so dense dense. So persistent. persistent. The G.o.ds could not lift so much as a feather, but he, a mere human, might pick up this ancient unchanging object and place it wherever he wished, even into his pocket. He wondered why he had never appreciated the stubborn fidelity of matter. A dried leaf lay nearby, even more stunning in its complexity. Matter invented so many The G.o.ds could not lift so much as a feather, but he, a mere human, might pick up this ancient unchanging object and place it wherever he wished, even into his pocket. He wondered why he had never appreciated the stubborn fidelity of matter. A dried leaf lay nearby, even more stunning in its complexity. Matter invented so many forms forms, and then went on to generate beauty beyond itself, minds and souls rising up out of it like melody from an instrument...matter was an amazement to the G.o.ds. Matter remembered itself so very clearly. He could not think why he had failed to notice it before. His own shaking hand was a miracle, as was the fine metal sword in his belly, and the orange trees in the tubs-one was tipped over now, wonderfully fractured and spilling-and the tubs, and the birdsong starting in the morning, and the water-water! Five G.o.ds, water!-in the fountain, and the morning light filtering into the sky...

"Lord Cazaril?" came a faint voice from his elbow.

He glanced aside to find that dy Cembuer had crept up to him.

"What was that?" Dy Cembuer sounded very close to tears.

"Some miracles." Too many in one place at one time. He was overwhelmed with miracles. They filled his eyes in every direction.

Speaking was a mistake, for the vibration stirred the pain in his gut. Though he could could speak; the sword did not appear to have pierced his lung. He imagined how much it would hurt to cough blood, just now. speak; the sword did not appear to have pierced his lung. He imagined how much it would hurt to cough blood, just now. Gut wound, then. I will be dead again in three days. Gut wound, then. I will be dead again in three days. He could smell a faint scent of s.h.i.t, mixed with the scorched meat and the G.o.ddess's perfume. And sobbing...no, wait, the deadly fecal smell was not coming from him, yet. The Baocian captain was curled up in a tight ball on his side a little way off, his arms locked around his head, weeping. He did not seem to have any wound. Ah. Yes. He had been the nearest living witness. The G.o.ddess must have brushed against him, in Her pa.s.sage. He could smell a faint scent of s.h.i.t, mixed with the scorched meat and the G.o.ddess's perfume. And sobbing...no, wait, the deadly fecal smell was not coming from him, yet. The Baocian captain was curled up in a tight ball on his side a little way off, his arms locked around his head, weeping. He did not seem to have any wound. Ah. Yes. He had been the nearest living witness. The G.o.ddess must have brushed against him, in Her pa.s.sage.

Cazaril risked another breath. "What did you see?" he asked dy Cembuer.

"That man-was that dy Jironal?"

Cazaril nodded, a tiny careful nod.

"When he stabbed you, there was a h.e.l.lish crack, and he burst into blue fire. He is...what did...did the G.o.ds strike him down?"

"Not exactly. It was...a little more complicated than that..." It seemed strangely quiet in the courtyard. Cazaril risked turning his head. About half of the bravos, and a few servants of Iselle's household, were laid flat on the ground. Some were mumbling rapidly under their breaths; others were crying like the Baocian captain. The rest had vanished.

Cazaril thought he could see now why a man had to lay down his life three times to do this. And here he'd imagined the G.o.ds were being arbitrary and difficult for the sake of some arcane punishment. He'd needed the first two deaths just for the practice practice. The first, to learn how to accept death in the body-his flogging on the galley, that had been. He had not not miscounted-that death had not been for the House of Chalion at the time. But it had become so, with Iselle's marriage to Bergon and its consummation; the joining of two into one, that had shared the curse so horrifyingly between them, had apparently also portioned out this sacrifice. Bergon's secret dowry, eh. Cazaril hoped he might live long enough to tell him, and that the royse would be pleased. His second acceptance, of death of the soul, had been in the lonely company of crows in Fonsa's tower. So that when he came at last to this one, he could offer the G.o.ddess a smooth and steady partnering...humbling parallels involving the training of mules offered themselves to his mind. miscounted-that death had not been for the House of Chalion at the time. But it had become so, with Iselle's marriage to Bergon and its consummation; the joining of two into one, that had shared the curse so horrifyingly between them, had apparently also portioned out this sacrifice. Bergon's secret dowry, eh. Cazaril hoped he might live long enough to tell him, and that the royse would be pleased. His second acceptance, of death of the soul, had been in the lonely company of crows in Fonsa's tower. So that when he came at last to this one, he could offer the G.o.ddess a smooth and steady partnering...humbling parallels involving the training of mules offered themselves to his mind.