In the same vile handwriting—dy Cazaril’s fingers had more strength than delicacy, Ista recalled—was written a postscript: Iselle and Bergon send a purse, in memory of the jewels pawned for another jaunt, that bought a country. I have entrusted it to Foix. Do not be alarmed by his humor, he is much less simple than he looks.
Slowly, Ista’s lips curled up. “I think that is very clear.”
She handed off the letter to the hovering dy Ferrej. His face fell as his eyes sped down the lines. His lips made an O, but were too well trained, perhaps, to complete the expletive. Ista credited the old Provincara for that.
Dy Ferrej looked up at the brothers. “But—the royina cannot take to the roads with only two outriders, no matter how excellent.”
“Certainly not, sir.” Ferda gave him a little bow. “We brought our full troop. I left them down in town to batten upon the temple’s larder, except for the two men I dispatched to another task. They should return tomorrow, to complete our numbers.”
“Other task?” said dy Ferrej.
“Marshal dy Palliar seized our going this way to add a chore. He sent up a fine Roknari stallion that we captured in the Gotorget campaign last fall, to cover the mares at our order’s breeding farm at Palma.” Ferda’s face grew animated. “Oh, I wish you’d had a chance to see him, Royina! He bounds from the earth and trots on air—the most glorious silver coat—silk merchants would swoon in envy. Hooves that ring like cymbals when they strike the ground, tail like a banner flying, mane like a maiden’s hair, a marvel of nature—”
His brother cleared his throat.
“Er,” concluded Ferda, “a very fine horse, withal.”
“I suppose,” dy Ferrej said, staring into the middle distance with the chancellor’s note still in his hand, “we could write to your brother dy Baocia in Taryoon for a detachment of his provincial cavalry, in addition. And ladies of his household, to wait upon you in full panoply. Your good sister-in-law, perhaps—or some of your nieces may be old enough … ladies of his court, and your own attendants, of course, and all the necessary maids and grooms. And we must send down to the temple for a suitable spiritual conductor. No, better—we should write to Cardegoss and ask Archdivine Mendenal to recommend a divine of high scholarship.”
“That would take another ten days,” said Ista in alarm. At least. Her thrill at dy Ferrej’s forced reversal sank in dismay. If he had his way, so far from escaping, she would be constrained to crawl over the countryside trailed by a veritable army. “I wish no such delay. The weather and the roads are much improved now,” she threw in a little desperately. “I would prefer to take advantage of the clear skies.”
“Well, well, we can discuss that,” he said, glancing up at the fair blue day as if allowing her the point, safely minor. “I’ll speak with your ladies and write to your brother.” His mouth turned down in thought. “Iselle and Bergon plainly mean some message by that purse. Perhaps, Royina, they intend for you to pray for a grandson on your pilgrimage? That would indeed be a great blessing to the royacy of Chalion, and a very befitting purpose for your prayers.” The idea clearly held more charm for him than it did for her, as he’d been enormously pleased recently by the birth of his own first grandson. But since it was the first positive remark he’d yet made about her … venture, she forbore to wrest it from him.
The dy Gura brothers and their horses were led off to the hospitality of the castle and its stables, respectively, and dy Ferrej hurried about his self-imposed tasks. Ista’s woman promptly began gabbling about all the problems of selecting clothing for such an arduous journey, for all the world as if Ista proposed an expedition across the mountains to Darthaca or beyond, instead of a pious amble around Baocia. Ista considered pleading a headache to make her stop her chatter, concluded it would ill serve her purposes, and set her teeth to endure.
THE WOMAN WAS STILL PRATTLING AND WORRYING BY LATE AFTERNOON. Trailed by three maids, she dodged about Ista’s rooms in the old keep, sorting and resorting piles of gowns, robes, cloaks, and shoes, trading off the need for colors appropriate for Ista’s high mourning with preparation for every likely or unlikely contingency. Ista sat in a window seat overlooking the entry court, letting the endless words flow over her like a drip from a gutter spout. Her headache was now quite real, she decided.
A clatter and bustle at the castle gate announced, unusually, another visitor. Ista sat up and peered through the casement. A tall bay horse clopped in through the archway; its rider wore the castle-and-leopard tabard of the chancellery of Chalion over more faded clothing. The rider swung down, bouncing on—oh, her toes; the courier was a fresh-faced young woman with her hair in a black braid down her back. She pulled a bundle from behind her saddle and unrolled it with a snap to reveal a skirt. With decidedly perfunctory modesty, she hitched up her tunic and wrapped the garment around her trousers at her slim waist, shaking out the hem around her booted ankles with a cheerful swing of her hips.
De Ferrej appeared below; the girl unsealed her chancellery pouch and held it upside down to drop out a single letter. Dy Ferrej read the direction and tore it open then and there, by which Ista deduced it was a personal missive from his beloved daughter Lady Betriz, attendant upon the Royina Iselle at court. Perhaps it contained news of his grandson, for his face softened. Was it time yet for first teeth? If so, Ista would hear of the infant’s achievement in due course. She had to smile a little.
The girl stretched, restored her pouch, checked her horse’s legs and hooves, and turned the animal over to the castle groom with some string of instructions. Ista became conscious of her own lady-in-waiting peering over her shoulder.
Ista said impulsively, “I would speak to that courier girl. Fetch her to me.”
“My lady, she had only the one letter.”
“Well, then, I’ll have to hear the news of court from her lips.”
Her woman snorted. “Such a rude girl is not likely to be in the confidence of the court ladies at Cardegoss.”
“Nonetheless, fetch her.”
It might have been the sharp tone of voice; in any case, the woman moved off.
At length, a firm tread and an aroma of horses and leather announced the girl’s arrival in Ista’s sitting room, even before her woman’s dubious, “My lady, here is the courier as you asked.” Ista swung round in the casement seat and stared up, waving her woman out; she departed with a disapproving frown.
The girl stared back with slightly daunted curiosity. She managed an awkward bob, halfway between a bow and a curtsey. “Royina. How may I serve you?”
Ista scarcely knew. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Liss, my lady.” After a moment of rather empty silence she offered, “Short for Annaliss.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Today? I picked up my dispatch case at the station in—”
“No—altogether.”
“Oh. Um. My father had a little estate near the town of Teneret, in the province of Labra. He raised horses for the Brother’s Order, and sheep for the wool market. Still does, as far as I know.”
A man of substance; she was not escaping some dire poverty, then. “How did you become a courier?”
“I had not thought about it, till one day my sister and I came to town to deliver some horses to the temple, and I saw a girl gallop in riding courier for the Daughter’s Order.” She smiled as if in some happy memory. “I was on fire from that moment.”
Perhaps it was the confidence of her calling, or of her youth and strength; the girl, while very polite, was by no means tongue-tied in the royina’s presence, Ista noted with relief. “Aren’t you afraid, out there alone on the roads?”
She tossed her head, making her braid swing. “I outride all danger. So far, anyway.”
Ista could believe it. The girl was taller than Ista, but still shorter and slighter than the average man, even the wiry fellows favored for couriers. She would sit her horse lightly. “Or … or uncomfortable? You must ride in heat, c
old, all weather …”
“I don’t melt in the rain. And the riding keeps me warm in the snow. If I have to, I can sleep wrapped in my cloak on the ground under a tree. Or up it, if the place seems chancy. It’s true the courier station bunks are warmer and less bumpy.” Her eyes crinkled with humor. “Slightly.”
Ista sighed in faint awe of such boundless energy. “How long have you been riding for the chancellery?”
“Three years, now. Since I was fifteen.”
What had Ista been doing at age fifteen? Training to be a great lord’s wife, she supposed. When Roya Ias’s eye had fallen on her, at about the age this girl was now, the schooling had seemed to succeed beyond her family’s wildest dreams—till the dream had melted into the long nightmare of Ias’s great curse. Now broken, thank the gods and Lord dy Cazaril; now broken these three years gone. The choking fog of it had lifted from her mind that day. The dullness of her life, the stalemate of her soul since then was just long habit.
“How came your family to let you leave home so young?”
The girl’s flickering amusement warmed her face like the sun through green leaves. “I believe I forgot to ask, come to think on it.”
“And the dispatcher allowed you to sign on without your father’s word?”
“I believe he forgot to ask, too, being in great need of riders just then. It’s amazing how the rules change in a pinch. But with four other daughters to dower, I didn’t expect my father and brothers to run down the road to drag me back.”
“You went that very day?” asked Ista, startled.
The white grin widened—she had healthy teeth, too, Ista noted. “Of course. I figured if I had to go home and spin one more skein of yarn, I’d scream and fall down in a fit. Besides, my mother never liked my yarn anyway. She said it was too lumpy.”
Ista could sympathize with that statement. A reluctant answering smile lifted her lips. “My daughter is a great rider.”
“So all Chalion has heard, my lady.” Liss’s eyes brightened. “From Valenda to Taryoon in one night, and dodging enemy troops the while—I’ve never had such an adventure. Nor won such a prize at the end of it.”
“Let us hope the wings of war will not brush Valenda so close again. Where do you go next?”
Liss shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll ride back to my station to await the next pouch my dispatcher hands to me, and go where it takes me. Swiftly if Ser dy Ferrej writes some reply, or slowly to spare my horse if he does not.”
“He will not write tonight … .” Ista scarcely wanted to let her go, but the girl looked disheveled and dirty from the road. Surely she would wish to wash and take refreshment. “Attend on me again, Liss of Labra. The castle takes dinner in an hour or so. Wait upon me there and dine at my table.”
The girl’s dark brows rose in brief surprise. She bow-curtseyed again. “At your command, Royina.”
THE OLD PROVINCARA’S HIGH TABLE WAS SET EXACTLY AS IT HAD been a thousand—ten thousand—times before, on days when no festival brought relief from the monotony. Granted it was comfortable, in the small dining chamber of the newest building within the castle walls, with fireplace and glazed windows. The same small company, too: Lady dy Hueltar, who was Ista’s mother’s aging relative and longtime companion; Ista; her principal lady attendants; solemn dy Ferrej. By tacit agreement, the old Provincara’s chair still stood empty. Ista had not moved to claim the central seat, and perhaps in some misplaced notion of her grief, none had urged her to.
Dy Ferrej arrived, escorting Ferda and Foix, both looking very courtly. And young. The courier girl entered in their wake and made polite bows. She had faced Royina Ista bravely enough alone, but the atmosphere of staid age here was enough to melt the sinews of strong soldiers. She took her seat stiffly and sat as if trying to make herself smaller, though she eyed the two brothers with interest. The aroma of horses was much fainter now, although Lady dy Hueltar wrinkled her nose. But one more place setting—not the old Provincara’s—still stood empty across from Ista.
“Do we expect a guest?” Ista inquired of dy Ferrej. One of the elderly people’s elderly friends, perhaps; Ista dared not hope for anything more exotic.
Dy Ferrej cleared his throat and nodded at old Lady dy Hueltar.
Her seamed face smiled. “I asked the Temple of Valenda to send us a suitable divine to be your spiritual conductor upon your pilgrimage, Royina. If we are not to send to Cardegoss for a court-trained scholar, I thought we might request Learned Tovia, of the Mother’s Order. She may be a lesser theologian, but she is a most excellent physician, and knows you of old. Such a relief to have someone familiar, should we be taken with any female complaints upon the road, or … or if your old troubles should flare up. And none could possibly be more proper to your sex and status.”
A relief to whom? Divine Tovia had been a bosom friend to the old Provincara and to Lady dy Hueltar; Ista could quite imagine the trio enjoying a gentle jaunt in the spring sunshine together. Five gods, had Lady dy Hueltar assumed she would be going along also? Ista suppressed an unworthy desire to scream, just like Liss in fear of being cocooned in her endless skeins of wool.
“I knew you would be pleased,” Lady dy Hueltar murmured on. “I thought you might wish to begin discussing your holy itinerary with her over dinner.” She frowned. “It’s not like her to be late.”
Her frown vanished, as a servant entered and said, “The divine is here, my lady.”
“Oh, good. Show her in at once.”
The servant opened his mouth as if to speak, but then bowed and retreated.
The door swung wide again. A puffing figure of totally unexpected familiarity entered, and stopped, stranded upon a wall of stares. It was the fat young divine of the Bastard that Ista had met upon the road those two weeks or so ago. His white robes were only somewhat cleaner now, being free of loose detritus, but mottled with permanent faint stains about the hem and front.
His beginning smile grew uncertain. “Good evening, gentle ladies and my lords. I was told to attend here upon a certain Lady dy Hueltar. Something about a divine being wanted for a pilgrimage … ?”
Lady dy Hueltar recovered her voice. “I am she. But I had understood the temple was sending the Mother’s physician, Divine Tovia. Who are you?”
That had almost come out Who are you? Ista felt, but for Lady dy Hueltar’s grip on good address.
“Oh …” He bobbed a bow. “Learned Chivar dy Cabon, at your service.”
He claimed a name of some rank, at least. He eyed Ista and Ser dy Ferrej; the recognition, Ista thought, ran two ways, as did the surprise.
“Where is Learned Tovia?” asked Lady dy Hueltar blankly.
“I believe she has ridden out upon a medical call of some special difficulty, at some distance from Valenda.” His smile grew less certain still.
“Welcome, Learned dy Cabon,” said Ista pointedly.
Dy Ferrej woke to his duties. “Indeed. I’m the castle warder, dy Ferrej; this is the Dowager Royina Ista …”
Dy Cabon’s eyes narrowed, and he stared sharply at Ista. “Are you, now …” he breathed.
Dy Ferrej, ignoring or not hearing this, introduced the dy Gura brothers and the other ladies in order of rank, and lastly, and a bit reluctantly, “Liss, a chancellery courier.”
Dy Cabon bowed to all with indiscriminate good cheer.
“This is all wrong—there must be some mistake, Learned dy Cabon,” Lady dy Hueltar went on, with a beseeching sideways glance at Ista. “It is the dowager royina herself who proposes to undertake a pilgrimage this season, in petition of the gods for a grandson. You are not—this is not—we do not know—is a divine of the Bastard’s Order, and a man at that, quite the most appropriate, um, person, um …” She trailed off in mute appeal for someone, anyone, to extract her from this quagmire.
Somewhere inside, Ista was beginning to smile.
She said smoothly, “Mistake or no, I feel certain that our dinner is ready to be served. Will you please grace our table
this evening with your scholarship, Learned, and lead us in the meal’s invocation to the gods?”
He brightened vastly. “I should be most honored, Royina.”
Smiling and blinking, he seated himself in the chair Ista indicated and looked hopeful as the servant passed among them with the basin of lavender-scented water for washing hands. He blessed the impending meal in unexceptionable terms and a good voice; whatever he was, he was no country rustic. He tucked into the courses presented with an enthusiasm that would have warmed the Provincara’s cook’s heart, could he have witnessed it, discouraged as he was by his long thrall to elderly, indifferent appetites. Foix kept pace with him with no apparent effort.
“Are you of those Cabons related to the present Holy General dy Yarrin of the Daughter’s Order?” Lady dy Hueltar inquired politely.
“I believe I am some sort of third or fourth cousin to him, lady,” the divine replied after swallowing his bite. “My father was Ser Odlin dy Cabon.”
Both dy Gura brothers stirred with interest.
“Oh,” said Ista in surprise. “I believe I met him, years ago, at court in Cardegoss.” Our Fat Cabon, as he was jovially dubbed by the roya; but he’d died as bravely as any thinner gentleman of the roya’s service at the disastrous battle of Dalus. She added after a moment, “You have the look of him.”
The divine ducked his head in apparent pleasure. “I am not sorry for it.”
Some impulse of mischief prompted Ista to ask, because it was certain no one else present would, “And are you also a son of Lady dy Cabon?”
The divine’s eye glinted in response over a forkful of roast. “Alas, no. But my father took some joy in me nonetheless, and settled a dower upon me at the Temple when I came of the age for schooling. For which I—eventually—came to thank him very much. My calling did not come upon me as a lightning bolt, to be sure, but slowly, as a tree grows.” Dy Cabon’s round face and divine’s robes made him look older than he was, Ista decided. He could not be above thirty, perhaps much less.
Paladin of Souls (Curse of Chalion) Page 5