The Complete Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The cacophony of protest was overridden by dy Gura’s simple, “Certainly. As you command, Royina.”

  The shocked silence that followed was decidedly baffled. And even, possibly, a little thoughtful, if that was not too much to hope.

  Ista sat back, a smile turning her lips.

  “I must take thought for a name,” she said at length. “Neither dy Chalion nor dy Baocia will do, unsimple as they are.” Dy Hueltar? Ista shuddered. No. She ran down a mental list of other minor relatives of the provincars of Baocia. “Dy Ajelo would do.” The Ajelo family had scarcely crossed her view, and never once provided a lady-in-waiting to assist in Ista’s…keeping. She bore them no ill will. “I shall still be Ista, I think. It’s not so uncommon a name as to be remarked.”

  The divine cleared his throat. “We need to confer a little tonight, then. I do not know what route you desire of me. A pilgrimage should have both a spiritual plan and, in necessary support of it, a material one.”

  And hers had neither. And if she did not assert one, one would surely be foisted upon her. She said cautiously, “How have you led the pious before, Learned?”

  “Well, that depends much upon the purposes of the pious.”

  “I have some maps in my saddlebags that might supply some inspiration. I’ll fetch them, if you like,” Ferda offered.

  “Yes,” said the divine gratefully. “That would be most helpful.”

  Ferda hurried out of the chamber. Outside, the day drew toward sunset, and the servants moved quietly about the room, lighting the wall sconces. Foix leaned his elbows comfortably on the table, smiled amiably at Liss, and found room for another slice of honey-nut cake while they waited for his brother’s return.

  Ferda strode back into the dining chamber in a very few minutes, his hands full of folded papers. “Here…no, here is Baocia, and the provinces to the west as far as Ibra.” He spread a stained and travel-worn paper out on the table between the divine and Ista. Dy Ferrej peered anxiously over dy Cabon’s shoulder.

  The divine frowned at the map for a few minutes, then cleared his throat and looked across at Ista. “We are taught that the route of a pilgrimage should serve its spiritual goal. Which may be simple or manifold, but which will partake of at least one of five aims: service, supplication, gratitude, divination, and atonement.”

  Atonement. Apology to the gods. Dy Lutez, she could not help thinking. The chill memory of that dark hour still clouded her heart, on this bright evening. Yet who owed Whom the apology for that disaster? We were all in it together, the gods and dy Lutez and Ias and I. And if abasing herself on the altar of the gods was the cure for that old wound, she had eaten dirt enough already for a dozen dy Lutezes. Yet the scar still bled, in the deep dark, if pressed.

  “I once saw a man pray for mules,” Foix remarked agreeably.

  Dy Cabon blinked. After a moment he asked, “Did he get any?”

  “Yes, excellent ones.”

  “The gods’ ways are…mysterious, sometimes,” murmured dy Cabon, apparently digesting this. “Ahem. Yours—Royina—is a pilgrimage of supplication, for a grandson as I understand it. Is it not?” He paused invitingly.

  It is not. But dy Ferrej and Lady dy Hueltar both made noises of assent, and Ista let it pass.

  Dy Cabon ran his finger over the intricately drawn chart, thick with place names, seamed with little rivers, and decorated with rather more trees than actually stood on Baocia’s high plains. He pointed out this or that shrine devoted to the Mother or the Father within striking distance of Valenda, describing the merits of each. Ista forced herself to look at the map.

  To the far south, beyond the map’s margins, lay Cardegoss, and the great castle and fortress of the Zangre of evil memory. No. To the east lay Taryoon. No. West and north, then. She trailed her finger across the map toward the spine of the Bastard’s Teeth, the high range that marked the long north–south border of Ibra, so recently united with Chalion in her daughter’s marriage bed. North along the mountains’ edge, some easy road. “This way.”

  Dy Cabon’s brow wrinkled as he squinted at the map. “I’m not just sure what…”

  “About a day’s ride west of Palma is a town where the Daughter’s Order has a modest hostel, rather pleasant,” remarked Ferda. “We’ve stayed there before.”

  Dy Cabon licked his lips. “Hm. I know of an inn near Palma that we might reach before nightfall, if we do not tarry on the road. It has a most excellent table. Oh, and a sacred well, very old. A minor holy place, but as Sera Ista dy Ajelo desires a pilgrimage in humility, perhaps a small start will serve her best. And the great shrines tend to be crowded, this time of year.”

  “Then by all means, Learned, let us avoid the crowds and seek humility, and pray at this well. Or table, as the case may be.” Ista’s lips twitched.

  “I see no need to weigh out prayer by the grain, as though it were dubious coin,” replied dy Cabon cheerily, encouraged by her fleeting smile. “Let us do both, and return abundance for abundance.” The divine’s thick fingers made calipers of themselves and stepped from Valenda to Palma to the spot Ferda had tapped. He hesitated, then his hand turned once more. “A day’s ride from there, if we arise early enough, is Casilchas. Sleepy little place, but my order has a school there. Some of my old teachers are still there. And it has a fine library, considering the small size of the place, for many teaching divines who have died have left it their books. I grant a seminary of the Bastard is not exactly…exactly apropos to the purpose of this pilgrimage, but I confess I should like to consult the library.”

  Ista wondered, a little dryly, if the school also had a particularly fine cook. She rested her chin upon her hand and studied the fat young man across from her. Whatever had possessed the Temple of Valenda to send him up to her, anyway? His half-aristocratic ancestry? Hardly. Yet experienced pilgrimage conductors usually had their charges’ spiritual battle plans all drawn out in advance. There were doubtless books of devotional instruction on the topic. Perhaps that was what dy Cabon wanted from the library, a manual that would tell him how to go on. Perhaps he had slept through a few too many of those holy lectures, in Casilchas.

  “Good,” said Ista. “The Daughter’s hospitality for the next two nights, the Bastard’s thereafter.” That would put her at least three full days’ ride from Valenda. A good start.

  Dy Cabon looked extremely relieved. “Excellent, Royina.”

  Foix was mulling over the maps; he’d pulled out one of all Chalion, necessarily less detailed than the one dy Cabon studied. His finger traced the route from Cardegoss north to Gotorget. The fortress guarded the end of a chain of rough, if not especially high, mountains that ran partway along the border between Chalion and the Roknari princedom of Borasnen. Foix’s brows knotted. Ista wondered what memories of pain the name of that fortress evoked in him.

  “You’ll want to avoid that region, I think,” said dy Ferrej, watching Foix’s hand pause at Gotorget.

  “Indeed, my lord. I believe we should steer clear of all north-central Chalion. It is still very unsettled from last year’s campaign, and Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon are already starting to assemble forces there for the fall.”

  Dy Ferrej’s brows climbed with interest. “Do they think to strike for Visping already?”

  Foix shrugged, letting his finger slide up to the north coast and the port city named. “I’m not sure if Visping can be taken in a single campaign, but it were good if it could. Cut the Five Princedoms in two, gain a seaport for Chalion that the Ibran fleet might find refuge in…”

  Dy Cabon leaned over the table, his belly pressing its edge, and peered. “The princedom of Jokona, to the west, would be next after Borasnen, then. Or would we strike toward Brajar? Or both at once?”

  “Two fronts would be foolish, and Brajar is an uncertain ally. Jokona’s new prince is young and untried. First pinch Jokona between Chalion and Ibra—pinch it off. Then turn to the northeast.” Foix’s eyes narrowed, and his pleasant mouth firmed, contemplating
this strategy.

  “Will you join the campaign in the fall, Foix?” Ista asked politely.

  He nodded. “Where the Marshal dy Palliar goes, the dy Gura brothers will surely follow. As a master of horse, Ferda will likely be pressed into assembling cavalry mounts by midsummer. And, lest I miss him and start to pine, he’ll find some hot, dirty job for me. Never any lack of those.”

  Ferda snickered. Foix’s returning grin at his brother seemed entirely without resentment.

  Ista thought Foix’s analysis sound, and had no doubt how he’d come by it. Marshal dy Palliar and Royse Bergon and Royina Iselle were none of them fools, and Chancellor dy Cazaril had a deep wit indeed, and not much love for the Roknari coastal lords who had once sold him to slavery on the galleys. Visping was a prize worth playing for.

  “We shall steer west, and away from the excitement, then,” she said. Dy Ferrej nodded approval.

  “Very good, Royina,” said dy Cabon. His sigh was only a little wistful, as he refolded Ferda’s maps and handed them back. Did he fear his father’s martial fate, or envy it? There was no telling.

  The party broke off shortly thereafter. The planning and complicated itinerary-listing and complaints from Ista’s women went on and on. They would never stop arguing, Ista decided; but she could. She would. You can’t solve problems by running away from them, it was said, and like the good child she had once been, she had believed this. But it wasn’t true. Some problems could only be solved by running away from them. When her lamenting ladies at last blew out the candles and left her to her rest, her smile crept back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ISTA SPENT THE EARLY MORNING SORTING THROUGH HER wardrobe with Liss, searching for clothing fit for the road and not merely a royina. Much that was old lingered in Ista’s cupboards and chests, but little that was plain. Any ornate or delicate gown that made Liss wrinkle her nose in doubt went instantly into the discard pile. Ista did manage to assemble a riding costume of leggings, split skirt, tunic, and vest-cloak that showed not a scrap of Mother’s green. Finally, they ruthlessly raided the wardrobes of Ista’s ladies and maids, to the latters’ scandal. This resulted at the last in a neat pile of garments—practical, plain, washable, and, above all, few.

  Liss was clearly happier to be sent off to the stables to select the most suitable riding horse and baggage mule. One baggage mule. By midday Ista’s feverish single-mindedness resulted in both women dressed for the road, the horses saddled, and the mule packed. The dy Gura brothers found them standing in the cobbled courtyard when they rode through the castle gate heading ten mounted men in the garb of the Daughter’s Order, dy Cabon following on his white mule.

  The grooms held the royina’s horse and ushered her to the mounting block. Liss leapt up lightly on her tall bay with no such assistance. In the spring of her life Ista had ridden much; hunted all day and danced till the moon went down, at the roya’s glittering court when she’d first come there. She, too, had been too long abed in this castle of age and grievous memory. A little light duty to regain condition was just what was wanted.

  Learned dy Cabon clambered from his mule long enough to stand up on the mounting block and intone a mercifully brief prayer and blessing upon the enterprise. Ista bowed her head, but did not mouth the responses. I want nothing of the gods. I’ve had their gifts before.

  Fourteen people and eighteen animals just to get her on the road. What about those pilgrims who somehow managed this with no more than a staff and a sack?

  Lady dy Hueltar and all of Ista’s ladies and maids trooped down to the courtyard, not to wish her farewell, it transpired, but to weep pointedly at her in one last, decidedly counterproductive, bid to make her change her mind. In the teeth of all evidence to the contrary, Lady dy Hueltar wailed, “Oh, she’s not serious—stop her, for the Mother’s sake, dy Ferrej!” Gritting her teeth, Ista let their cries bounce off her back like arrows glancing from chain mail. Dy Cabon’s white mule led out the archway and down the road at a gentle amble, but even so the voices fell behind at last. The soft spring wind stirred Ista’s hair. She did not look back.

  THEY REACHED THE INN AT PALMA BY SUNSET, BARELY. IT HAD BEEN A very long time, Ista reflected as she was helped down from her horse, since she had spent a whole day in the saddle, hunting or traveling. Liss, plainly bored with the pilgrimage’s placid pace, jumped down off her animal as though she’d spent the afternoon lounging on a couch. Foix had apparently worked through whatever stiffness lingered from his injuries earlier in the brothers’ journey. Even dy Cabon didn’t waddle as though he hurt. When the divine offered her his arm, Ista took it gratefully.

  Dy Cabon had sent one of the men riding ahead to bespeak beds and a meal for the party, fortunately as it turned out, for the inn was small. Another party, of tinkers, was being turned away as they arrived. The place had once been a narrow fortified farmhouse, now made more sprawling with an added wing. The dy Gura brothers and the divine were given one chamber to share, Ista and Liss another, and the rest of the guardsmen were assigned pallets in the stable loft, although the mild night made this no discomfort.

  The innkeeper and his wife had set up two tables near the sacred spring, in a little grove behind the building, and hung lanterns lavishly in the trees. The thick moss and ferns, the bluebells and the bloodroots with their starry white blooms, the interlaced boughs, and the gentle gurgle of the water running over the smooth stones made a more lovely dining chamber, Ista thought, than she had sat in for many a year. They all washed their hands in springwater brought in a copper basin and blessed by the divine, and needing no other perfume. The innkeeper’s wife was famous for her larder-keeping. A pair of servants kept busy lugging out heavy trays and jugs: good bread and cheese, roast ducks, mutton, sausages, dried fruit, new herbs and spring greens, eggs, dark olives and olive oil from the north, apple nut tarts, new ale and cider—simple fare, but very wholesome. Dy Cabon made flattering inroads upon these offerings, and even Ista’s appetite, numbed for months, bestirred itself. When she finally undressed and lay down beside Liss in the clean little bed in the chamber under the eaves, she fell asleep so quickly she barely remembered it next morning.

  RISING AGAIN, AS THE EARLY LIGHT FELL THROUGH THE HALF-OPEN casement window, proved briefly awkward. Through sheer ingrained habit, Ista stood still for a time and waited to be dressed, like a doll, till she realized her new maidservant would require instruction. At that point it became easier to sort out and draw on her garments herself, though she did ask for help with some of the fastenings. They snagged for a moment upon the problem of Ista’s hair.

  “I don’t know how to dress ladies’ hair,” Liss confessed when Ista handed her the brush and sat on a low bench. She stared doubtfully at Ista’s thick dun mane, hanging to her waist. Ista had, perhaps ill-advisedly, picked out her former attendant’s careful, tight, elaborate braiding before bed. The hair’s own curl had reasserted itself during the night, and it was now beginning to snarl, and perhaps growl and snap.

  “You do your own, presumably. What do you do with it?”

  “Well, I put it in a braid.”

  “What else?”

  “I put it in two braids.”

  Ista thought a moment. “Do you do the horses?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady. Snail braids, and dressed with ribbons, and fringe knots with beads for the Mother’s Day, and for the Son’s Day the fountain knots along the crest, with feathers worked in, and—”

  “For today, put it in one braid.”

  Liss breathed relief. “Yes, my lady.” Her hands were quick and clever; much quicker than Ista’s former attendants. The results, well, they suited modest Sera dy Ajelo becomingly enough.

  The whole party met in the grove for dawn prayers, for this the first full day of Ista’s pilgrimage. Dawn by courtesy, anyway—the sun had been up for some hours before the inn’s guests. The innkeeper, his wife, and all their children and the servants were also turned out for the ceremony, as the visit of a divine of notable schol
arship was evidently a rare event. Besides which, Ista thought more cynically, there was the possibility that were he flatteringly enough received, the divine might recommend other pilgrims to this decidedly minor holy attraction.

  As this wellspring was sacred to the Daughter, dy Cabon stood on the bank of the rivulet in the sun-dappled shade and commenced with a short springtime prayer from a small book of occasional devotions he carried in his saddlebag. Exactly why this well was sacred to the Lady of Spring was a little unclear. Ista found the innkeeper’s assertion that it was the true secret location of the miracle of the virgin and the water jar a trifle unconvincing, as she knew of at least three other sites in Chalion alone that claimed that legend. But the beauty of the place was surely excuse enough for its holy reputation.

  Dy Cabon, his stained robes seeming almost white in this pure light, pocketed his book and cleared his throat for the morning lesson. Since the tables behind them stood set and waiting for breakfast to be served when prayers were done, Ista was confident that the sermon would be succinct.

  “As this is the beginning of a spiritual journey, I shall go back to the tale of beginnings we all learned in our childhoods.” The divine closed his eyes briefly, as if marshaling memory. “Here is the story as Ordol writes it in his Letters to the Young Royse dy Brajar.”

  His eyes opened again, and his voice took up a storyteller’s rhythm. “The world was first and the world was flame, fluid and fearsome. As the flame cooled, matter formed and gained vast strength and endurance, a great globe with fire at its heart. From the fire at the heart of the world slowly grew the World-Soul.

  “But the eye cannot see itself, not even the Eye of the World-Soul. So the World-Soul split in two, that it might so perceive itself; and so the Father and the Mother came into being. And with that sweet perception, for the first time, love became possible in the heart of the World-Soul. Love was the first of the fruits that the realm of the spirit gifted back to the realm of matter that was its fountain and foundation. But not the last, for song was next, then speech.” Dy Cabon, speaking, grinned briefly and drew another long breath.