The Complete Chalion

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs outside; Ista looked up from nibbling on her quill feather to see Liss’s braid flash past beyond the grille. She thumped through to Ista’s chamber and stuck her head in the door.

  “Royina,” she said breathlessly. “Something is happening. Lord Arhys has ridden out with a party of armed men—I’m going to the north tower to try to see what I can.”

  Ista rose so hastily she nearly knocked over her chair. “I’ll go with you.”

  They climbed the winding stone staircase to this vantage behind a hastening crossbowman in Porifors’s gray-and-gold tabard. All three went to the northeast edge and peered over the crenellations.

  On this side of the castle, opposite the drop to the river, the land rolled away more level with the ridge. A road, pale with dry dust, wound east through the arid, sunny countryside.

  “That’s the road from Oby,” panted Liss.

  A pair of horsemen were galloping down it, details blurred by the distance. But even from here, Ista could see that one rider was thick, and the other much thicker. The thicker one wore some brown garment over flashes of white. The stiff gait of a horse attempting to canter under Learned dy Cabon’s jouncing weight was distinctive, at least to Ista’s experienced eye.

  A little way beyond them galloped a dozen other men. An escort…? No. Green tabards of Jokona, here, under the frowning brow of Porifors itself? Ista gasped. The pursuing soldiers were closing on the lead pair.

  With a scuff of slippers and a flutter of silks, Lady Cattilara emerged onto the tower top and ran to look over. She stood on tiptoe and leaned, her pale bosom heaving. “Arhys…five gods, oh, the Father of Winter protect you…”

  Ista followed her gaze. Below Porifors, Arhys on his dappled gray led a troop of mounted men headlong up the road. The lesser horses were hard pressed to keep up with the gray’s reaching strides, and Liss muttered approval of its ground-eating action.

  Cattilara’s lips parted on her panting, and her eyes grew wide and anxious. She vented a little moan.

  “What,” murmured Ista to her. “You can’t be afraid of his being killed, after all.”

  Cattilara shot her a sulky look, hunched one shoulder, and returned her stare to the road.

  Dy Cabon’s overburdened horse was laboring, falling behind. The other horseman—yes, it was certainly Foix dy Gura—pulled up his own mount and motioned the divine onward. Foix’s horse capered on the road, fighting his reins. Foix held the beast short with his left hand, grasped his sword hilt, and rose in his stirrups to glare at his pursuers.

  No, Foix! Ista thought helplessly. Foix was a strong swordsman, but unsubtle, without Lord Arhys’s brilliant speed; he might do for one or two of his enemies, maybe three, who would not rise again, but then the rest would overwhelm him. He had not yet seen the rescue riders approaching, out of his sight in a long hollow. He would throw himself away to save the divine, without need…

  His right hand rose again from his hilt, fingers clenching and stretching. His arm went out, tensely. A faint violet light seemed to flicker from his palm, and Cattilara’s breath drew in sharply in astonishment. Liss did not react; was oblivious to this light, Ista realized.

  The first horse in the approaching pack stumbled and fell headlong, spilling its rider. Two others fell atop it before they could pull up. Several horses reared, or shied and tried to bolt to the sides. Foix jerked his mount around and began galloping after dy Cabon.

  So. Foix still has his pet bear. And it seems he’s taught it to dance. Ista’s lips pursed in worry at the implications.

  But other worries were more immediate. Past the rise and dip in the road, dy Cabon met Arhys. The divine’s lathered brown horse staggered to a halt and stood spread-legged; the dappled gray reared beside it. Gesticulations, pointings. Arhys flung his hand in the air, and his troop reined up around him. More hand-waving, and quietly called orders blurred by the breeze to unintelligibility at Ista’s apprehensive height and distance. Swords were drawn, bows cocked, lances leveled, and the troop spread out and began to move up behind the brow of the road.

  Dy Cabon’s failing horse stumbled on at a walk toward Porifors, but he twisted his bulk in the saddle to watch over his shoulder as Foix crested the hill. Foix recoiled briefly at the sight of the armed troop, but an open handed wave from Arhys, and a wilder arm-circling from dy Cabon, beyond, apparently reassured him. He lashed his horse onward, spoke briefly with Arhys, turned, and drew his sword.

  A breathless pause. Ista could hear her blood thudding in her ears, and, foolishly, some bird warbling in the brush, a bright, liquid, indifferent trill, just as if this were some morning of peace and ease. Arhys raised his sword high and swung it down sharply in signal, and his troop thundered forward.

  The men from Porifors crested the rise and fell upon the Jokonan troop too fast for the leaders to turn and retreat. The horsemen in both vans were instantly engaged. The Jokonans at the rear yanked their horses around as hard as they could and spurred away, but not faster than at least a couple of crossbow bolts. A rider in a green tabard toppled and fell from his saddle. The range from here was too great for the bowman sharing Ista’s vantage on the tower to waste his quarrels in the fray, and he swore in frustration at his impotence, then glanced at the royina and mumbled an apology. Ista waved him full royal dispensation, gripped the hot, gritty stone, and leaned squinting into the light.

  Arhys’s sword danced in the sun, a glittering blur. His dappled gray was crowded up in the middle of a pack of kicking, squealing horses. A Jokonan soldier who had managed to get his lance unshipped whipped it up over his own mount’s head and jammed it awkwardly, backhanded, across the haunches of the mount of the man who presently engaged Arhys’s sword. Arhys jerked away. Cattilara screamed as the lance wrenched back again, spattering blood.

  “My lord is struck!” cried the bowman, leaning out as tensely as the women. “Oh—no. His sword arm rises. Five gods be thanked.”

  The horsemen disengaged, the Jokonan swordsman reeling in his saddle. The spearman saw an opening and galloped through to pursue his retreating comrades, bending low over his mount’s neck; a crossbow bolt whizzed over his head to encourage him on his way.

  Curse it, that spearpoint had found a mark in Arhys’s shoulder; Ista had seen the shock of the contact shove the Jokonan’s hand back, almost ripping the shaft from his grip. Yet Arhys’s sword swung unhindered… Her breath drew in sharply, and she whirled away and started for the stairs.

  “Liss, attend me!”

  “But Royina, don’t you want to see how it comes out?”

  “Attend me.”

  Not waiting to see if the girl followed, Ista yanked up her lilac skirts and shuffled down the tight, dark stone curve of the tower stairs. She almost fell in her haste, then hugged the outer wall and the wider tread, but did not slow.

  Out the door, across another courtyard, under the archway, into the stone court. Up the stairs. Her feet thumped across the gallery. She tugged open Illvin’s carved door.

  Goram was crouched by Lord Illvin’s right side, groaning in fear. Illvin’s linen tunic was yanked open and half-down. The groom glanced over his shoulder at her entry and cried, “Lady, help!”

  His hands, she saw as she neared, were pressed to Illvin’s shoulder, and gory with blood. The tunic sleeve was soaked in scarlet. Ista tore around the room until she found a cloth that might be folded into a pad, bundled it clean side outward, and offered it; Goram snatched his hands away just long enough to grab it and stuff it against the jagged wound in Illvin’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t! I didn’t!” cried Goram to her, his eye rolling white-rimmed. “It just happened.”

  “Yes, Goram, I know. It’s all right,” Ista soothed him. “You’re doing well.” Almost, she was tempted to squeeze the rope of white fire shut again, returning the ugly gash to its rightful owner. But now was clearly not a good moment to drop Arhys senseless from his saddle. Illvin’s closed gray eyelids did not move or flut
ter or pinch in pain, at least. In his unfeeling state he might be freely tended, washed with brine, jabbed with sewing needles. So, Ista wondered dizzily, if the demon permitted him to wake this noon, would the needle punctures still be there when the wound they held closed fled back to his brother?

  The door swung open; Liss at last.

  “Liss. Run at once and find some woman used to tending wounds—the Mother’s craft must have much practice here—have her bring her soap and salves and needles, and a servant to carry water as well.”

  “What? Why?” She trod closer in curiosity.

  “Lord Illvin is badly cut.”

  At this point, Liss saw the blood, and she gasped. “Yes, Royina. But—how could…?”

  “You saw the spear thrust.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes grew very wide indeed, and she turned and ran.

  Goram peeked quickly under the pad and clapped it tight again. Ista hung over his shoulder. The puncture was not so deep as she had feared; already the sluggish flow of blood was diminishing. “Good, Goram. Keep pressing.”

  “Aye, lady.”

  Ista waited, shifting from foot to foot, until voices sounded again from the gallery outside. Liss opened the door for a woman in an apron bearing a basket, and ushered her in; a male servant followed.

  “Lord Illvin…” Ista began, and glanced at Goram, “fell out of bed and struck his shoulder.” On what? Ista’s invention failed her. She passed rapidly on. “Tend to him and bind him. Help Goram clean up. Speak of this to no one but me, Lord Arhys, or Lady Cattilara.”

  Those of the rescue party from Porifors who hadn’t chased after the Jokonans might be escorting their new guests through the gates just about now, Ista guessed. She strode for the door. “Liss, attend me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ISTA HURRIED UNDER THE ARCHWAY INTO THE ENTRY COURT IN time to see the flushed and gasping Learned dy Cabon sag from his horse into the arms of one of Lord Arhys’s men. The soldier helped the divine totter a few steps to collapse in the narrow shade of the wall by the almond tree. He held a worried hand to dy Cabon’s face and spoke to a servant, who hurried away. Dy Cabon struggled out of his semiconcealing brown vest-cloak, letting it fall around him to the petal-strewn pavement.

  Foix, looking almost equally hot and harried, jumped from his horse, threw down the reins, and strode to the divine’s side.

  “Curse it, Foix,” dy Cabon wheezed, staring up at him, “I told you to stop playing with that thing.”

  “Fine,” Foix snarled back. “Ride back and lie down by the side of the road for Jokonan dog meat, if you don’t like it. The pack could feast for a month.”

  The servant arrived, and, at the soldier’s gesture, upended a bucket of water slowly over dy Cabon, soaking his dirty white robes. Dy Cabon did not recoil or protest, but just sat limply, raising his chin and opening his mouth.

  Foix nodded in gratitude and took a tin cup of water that another servant proffered from a second bucket, gulped it down, then scooped up a second and third and repeated the performance. With a fretful grimace, he ladled up another cupful, squatted by dy Cabon’s side, and held it to the divine’s lips. Dy Cabon lifted a shaking hand to it, guzzling noisily.

  The soldier gave Ista a respectful salute as she approached, and murmured to her, “Very close to the heatstroke, that one. It’s a bad sign when a man that big stops sweating. But don’t worry, Royina, we’ll get him right around.”

  Foix’s head swiveled. “Royina!” he cried. “Five gods be thanked! I kiss your hands, I kiss your feet!” He pushed another cup of water into dy Cabon’s grip and lunged over to one knee before her skirts, grasping her hands and planting a hot kiss on the back of each. “Ah!” He pressed them to his sweaty forehead in a less formal but entirely sincere addition. He did not rise immediately, but swung one leg around and sat cross-legged and wheezing, allowing his broad shoulders, for just this moment of safety, to slump.

  He grinned up at Liss, flanking Ista. “So, you made it here, too. Might have known.”

  She grinned back. “Yes, you might.”

  “Been chasing after your dust since Maradi. The fastest horses were always already taken, for some reason.”

  Her smile stretched to a cheery smirk.

  He squinted. “Pretty dress. Quite a change.”

  She drew back a little, self-consciously. “It’s only loaned.”

  At a clacking of hooves, Foix looked up and scrambled to his feet. Lord Arhys, flanked by another mounted soldier, trotted through the gate on his dappled gray, swung down, and flung his reins to a groom.

  “So, Royina.” Arhys turned to her, his smile flickering. “I think your lost ones are returned to you.”

  Foix bobbed him a bow. “Only by virtue of your succor, sir. I had not time to introduce myself, out there. Foix dy Gura, at your service.”

  “Even if I had not met your brother, your sword and your enemies were recommendation enough. Arhys dy Lutez. Porifors is mine. I shall welcome you in better style hereafter, but I must first see to my scouts. Those Jokonans should not have been on that road—we took two prisoners alive, so I mean to find out how they came so close unseen.” He cast Ista a glum glance. “Now do I doubly miss Illvin—his command of the Roknari tongue is better than any other’s, here.” Arhys gave a wave to Dedicat Pejar, dashing into the entry court with his tunic half fastened and his sword belt askew to greet his restored officer. “Here is one of your own men, to show you how to go on.” He called to a servant, “See that these two have everything they need, till my return. Whatever Pejar or the royina ask.”

  The servant gave him an acknowledging half bow. Arhys’s gaze was wary, sweeping past dy Cabon, still sitting bedraggled on the pavement. The divine made an exhausted hand motion, a truncated blessing, promising greater courtesies later.

  Arhys turned for his horse again, but paused as Ista grasped him by the sleeve. She reached upward and touched his tunic, torn and bloody on the right shoulder, felt through the rip, and ran her fingers over his cool, unbroken skin. She turned her hand over before him to silently display the dark carmine smear. “At your earliest spare moment, March, I suggest you come inspect your brother’s wound. Your brother’s new wound.”

  His lips parted in dismay; he met her level gaze, and winced. “I see.”

  “Ride carefully, till then. Wear your mail.”

  “We were in haste—” He fingered the rip, his frown deepening. “Indeed.” He gave her a grim nod and swung up again on his sidling horse. Motioning to his mounted man to follow, he cantered out.

  Foix glanced around and back to Pejar, worry in his eyes. “Is Ferda here? Is he well?”

  “Well, sir, but gone looking for you,” Pejar replied. “He’s probably reached Maradi by now. I expect he’ll make the circle and turn up back here in a few days, swearing at the waste of horseshoes.”

  Foix grimaced. “I trust he won’t take the same road we did. Wasn’t what the march of Oby led me to expect at all.”

  Why are you not now in the temple hospital at Maradi? Ista wanted to ask, but decided to wait. Foix’s soul was as vigorous and centered as Liss’s, but it appeared to her inner eye that a bear-shaped shadow lurked in his gut. It seemed to sense her scrutiny, for it curled tighter, as if attempting to hibernate. She motioned the hovering servant to her side. “See that these men are speedily refreshed, especially the divine, and lodged in rooms near me.”

  “Yes, Royina.”

  She added to Foix, “We must speak of—everything, as soon as we may. Have Pejar direct you to me in the stone court as soon as you are both recovered.”

  “Yes,” he said eagerly, “we must hear all your tale. Lord Arhys’s ambush was the talk of Oby, yesterday.”

  Ista sighed. “So much of dire import has happened since then, I had nearly forgot it.”

  His brows climbed. “Oh? We’ll hasten to your side, then.”

  He bowed and turned away to assist the servant in coaxing dy Cabon back to his feet. Foix seem
ed very practiced at it, as if hauling the fat man up and forcing him to move had become second nature of late; dy Cabon’s grumbles were equally perfunctory. The damp divine did not so much drip as steam, but he seemed to be gaining relief from his initial distress.

  Cattilara’s light tread echoed in the archway. The men looked around. Despite his overheated debility, dy Cabon smiled in a Cattilara-smitten fashion. Foix blinked, and went rather still.

  “Where is my lord?” Cattilara demanded in anxiety.

  “He has ridden back out with his scouts,” Ista said. “It seems that spear thrust we saw found another target.”

  Cattilara’s eyes widened. Her head turned toward the stone court.

  “Yes,” said Ista. “He is being cared for now, however.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  Cattilara’s sigh of relief was premature, in Ista’s judgment. The girl had not yet thought it through. But she likely would. “Lord Arhys will return by noon—no doubt.”

  Cattilara’s lips pinched at her, briefly.

  Ista went on, “Lady Cattilara dy Lutez, Marchess of Porifors, may I introduce to you my spiritual conductor, Learned Chivar dy Cabon, and Foix dy Gura, officer-dedicat of the Daughter’s Order. You have met his captain and brother Ferda.”

  “Oh, yes.” Cattilara managed a distracted curtsey. “Welcome to Porifors.” She paused, returning Foix’s uncertain look. For a moment, they stood as stiffly as two strange cats just sighting each other. The two demon shadows within them were so tightly closed in Ista’s presence, it was hard to guess their reaction to this proximity, but it did not seem one of joyous greeting. Liss, observing Foix’s lack of the more usual male response to the lovely marchess, brightened slightly.