The Curse of Chalion

Chapter 21

They came to Valenda at dusk on the following day. The town bulked black against a pewter sky, its deepening shadows relieved here and there by the orange flare of some torch or candle, faint sparks of light and life. They’d had no remounts on the branch road to Valenda, courier stations being reserved for the route to the Baocian provincial seat of Taryoon, so the last leg had been a long one for the horses. Cazaril was content to let the tired beasts walk, heads down on a long rein, the remaining stretch through the city and up the hill. He wished he could stop here, stop, and sink down by the side of the road, and not move for days. In minutes, it would be his task to tell a mother that her son was dead. Of all the trials he expected to face on this journey, this was the worst.

Too soon, they reached the Provincara’s castle gates. The guards recognized him at once and ran shouting for the servants; the groom Demi held his horse, and was the first to ask, Why are you here, my lord? The first, but not the last.

“I bear messages to the Provincara and the Lady Ista,” Cazaril replied shortly, bent over his pommel. Foix popped up at his horse’s shoulder, staring up expectantly; Cazaril heaved his off leg up over the horse’s haunches, kicked free of the other stirrup, and dropped to his feet. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen then, but for the strong hand that caught his elbow. They’d made good time. He wondered dizzily how dearly he would pay for it. He stood a moment, trembling, till his balance returned to him. “Is Ser dy Ferrej here?”

“He has escorted the Provincara to a wedding feast in town,” Demi told him. “I don’t know when they mean to return.”

“Oh,” said Cazaril. He was almost too tired to think. He’d been so exhausted last night, he’d fallen asleep in the posting-house bunk within minutes of being steered to it by his helpers, and slept even through Dondo. Wait for the Provincara? He’d meant to report to her first, and let her determine how to tell her daughter. No. This is unbearable. Get it over with. “In that case, I will see the Lady Ista first.”

He added, “The horses need to be rubbed down and watered and fed. These are Ferda and Foix dy Gura, men of good family in Palliar. Please see that they are given . . . everything. We’ve not eaten.” Nor washed, but that was obvious; everyone’s sweat-soaked woolens were splashed with winter road mud, hands grimed, faces streaked with dirt. They were all three blinking and weary in the torchlight of the courtyard. Cazaril’s fingers, stiff from clutching his reins in the cold since dawn, plucked at the ties of his saddlebags. Foix took that task from him, too, and pulled the bags off the horse. Cazaril rather determinedly took them back from him, folded them over his arm, and turned. “Take me to Ista now, please,” he said faintly. “I have letters for her from the Royesse Iselle.”

A house servant led him within, and up the stairs in the new building. The man had to wait for Cazaril to climb slowly after him. His legs felt like lead. Murmurs rose and fell between the man and the royina’s attendants, as he negotiated Cazaril’s entry to her chambers. The air within was perfumed with bowls of dried flower petals and aglow with candlelight and warmth from the corner fireplace. Cazaril felt huge and awkward and filthy in this dainty sitting room.

Ista sat on a cushioned bench, dressed in warm wraps, her dun hair bound in a thick rope down her back. Like Sara, the inky shadow of the curse hung about her. So. I was right in that guess.

Ista turned toward him; her eyes widened, and her face stiffened. She surely knew something was terribly wrong just by his sudden presence here. The hundred ways to break the news to her gently that he’d rehearsed during the long hours of riding seemed to fall through his fingers, under the pressure of those dark, dilated eyes. Any delay now would be cruel beyond measure. He fell to one knee before her, and cleared his throat.

“First. Iselle is well. Hold to that.” He inhaled. “Second. Teidez died two nights ago, from an infected wound.”

The two women attending upon Ista cried out, and clutched each other. Ista barely moved, but for a little flinch, as if an invisible arrow had struck her. She vented a long, wordless exhalation.

“You understand my words, Royina?” Cazaril said hesitantly.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. One corner of her mouth turned up; Cazaril could not call it a smile. It was nothing like a smile, that black irony. “When it is too-long-anticipated, a blow falls as a relief, you see. The waiting is over. I can stop fearing, now. Can you understand that?”

Cazaril nodded.

After a moment of silence, broken only by the sobbing of one of her women, she added quietly, “How came he by this wound? Hunting? Or something . . . else?”

“Not . . . hunting exactly. In a way it was . . .” Cazaril licked his lips, chapped with the cold. “Lady, do you see anything odd about me?”

“I see only with my eyes, now. I’ve been blind for years, you see. You see?”

Her emphasis made her meaning very plain, Cazaril thought. “Yes.”

She nodded and sat back. “I thought so. There is a look about one who sees with those eyes.”

A trembling attendant crept up to Ista, and said in an overly light voice, “Lady, perhaps you should come away to bed, now. Your lady mother will surely be back soon . . .” She shot Cazaril a meaningful look over her shoulder; clearly, the woman thought Ista was going into one of her mad fugues. Into what everyone thought was one of her fugues. Had Ista ever been mad?

Cazaril sat back on his heels. “Please leave us now. I must have some private speech with the royina on matters of some urgency.”

“Sir, my lord . . .” The woman managed a false smile, and whispered in his ear, “We dare not leave her in this stricken hour—she might do herself some harm.”

Cazaril climbed to his full height, and took both ladies by the arms, and steered them gently but inexorably out the door. “I will undertake to guard her. Here, you may wait in this chamber across the hall, and if I need you, I will call out, all right?” He shut both doors upon their protests.

Ista waited unmoving, but for her hands. She held a fine lace handkerchief, which she commenced to folding, over and over, into smaller and smaller squares. Cazaril grunted down to sit cross-legged on the floor at her feet and stare up into that wide-eyed, chalky face.

“I have seen the Zangre’s ghosts,” he said.

“Yes.”

“More. I have seen the dark cloud that hangs over your House. The Golden General’s curse, the bane of Fonsa’s heirs.”

“Yes.”

“You know of it, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“It hangs about you now.”

“Yes.”

“It hung about Orico, and Sara. Iselle—and Teidez.”

“Yes.” She tilted her head and stared away.

Cazaril thought about a state of shock he had seen sometimes come upon men in battle, between the moment a blow fell, and the time their bodies fell; men who should have been unconscious, should have been dead, staggering about yet for a time, accomplishing, sometimes, extraordinary acts. Was this quiet coherence such a shock, soon to melt—should he seize it? Or had Ista ever really been incoherent? Or did we just not understand her?

“Orico has become very ill. How I came by my second sight is all of a piece with this black tangle. But please, please, lady, tell me how you came to know. What did you see, and when, and how? I must understand. Because I think—I fear—it has been given to me, it has fallen to me, to act. Yet nothing has told me what that action must be. Even second sight cannot pierce this dark.”

Her brows went up. “I can tell you truths. I cannot give you understanding. For how can one give what one does not possess? I have always told the truth.”

“Yes. I see that now.” He took a daring breath. “But have you ever told all of it?”

She sucked on her lower lip a moment, studying him. Her trembling hands, seeming to belong to some other Ista than the one of this carven face, began unfolding the tight knot of the handkerchief again upon her knee. Slowly, she nodded. Her voice was so low, Cazaril had to tilt his head to be sure of catching all her words.

“It began when I became pregnant with Iselle. The visions. The second sight came and went. I thought it was an effect of my pregnancy—bearing turns some women’s brains. The physicians convinced me of that, for a time. I saw the blind ghosts drifting. I saw the dark cloud hanging upon Ias, and young Orico. I heard voices. I dreamed of the gods, of the Golden General, of Fonsa and his two faithful companions burning in his tower. Of Chalion burning like the tower.

“After Iselle was born, the visions ceased. I thought I had been mad, and then got well again.”

The eye could not see itself, not even the inner eye. He had been granted Umegat, been granted knowledge bought at others’ cost and handed to him as a gift. How frightened would he be by now, if he were still groping for explanations of the inexplicable?

“Then I became pregnant again, with Teidez. And the visions began again, twice as bad as before. It was unbearable to think myself mad. Only when I threatened to kill myself did Ias confess to me that it was the curse, and that he knew it. Had always known of it.”

And how betrayed, to find that those who’d known the truth hadn’t told him, had left him to stagger about in isolated terror?

“I was horrified that I had brought my two children into this dire danger. I prayed and prayed to the gods that it might be lifted, or that they would tell me how it might be lifted, that they would spare the innocent.

“Then the Mother of Summer came to me, when I was round to bursting with Teidez. Not in a dream, not while I was sleeping, but when I was awake and sober, in the broad day. She stood as close to me as you are now, and I fell to my knees. I could have touched her robe, if I’d dared. Her breath was a perfume, like wildflowers in the summer grasses. Her face was too beautiful for my eyes to comprehend, it was like staring into the sun. Her voice was music.”

Ista’s lips softened; even now, the peace of that vision echoed briefly in her face, a flash of beauty like the reflection of sunlight on dark waters. But her brows tightened again, and she spoke on, bending forward, growing, if possible, more shadowed, more intent.

“She said that the gods sought to take the curse back, that it did not belong in this world, that it was a gift to the Golden General that he had spilt improperly. She said that the gods might draw the curse back to them only through the will of a man who would lay down his life three times for the House of Chalion.”

Cazaril hesitated. The sound of his own breath in his nostrils seemed enough to drown out that quiet voice. But the question rose helplessly to his lips, though he cursed himself for sounding a fool. “Um . . . I don’t suppose that three men could lay down their lives once each, instead?”

“No.” Her lips curved in that weird ironic not-smile. “You see the problem.”

“I . . . I . . . I don’t see the solution, though. Was it a trick, this . . . prophecy?”

Her hands opened briefly, ambiguously, then began folding the handkerchief again. “I told Ias. He told Lord dy Lutez, of course; Ias kept nothing from dy Lutez, except for me. Except for me.”

Historical curiosity overcame Cazaril. Now that they were comrades in . . . sainthood, or something like it, it seemed easy to talk to Ista. The ease was lunatic, tilted, fragile, if he blinked it would be gone beyond recall, and yet . . . saint to saint and soul to soul, for this floating moment it was an intimacy stranger and more soaring than lover to lover. He began to understand why Umegat had fallen upon him with such hunger. “What was their relationship, really?”

She shrugged. “They were lovers since before I was born. Who was I to judge them? Dy Lutez loved Ias; I loved Ias. Ias loved us both. He tried so hard, cared so much, trying to bear the weight of all his dead brothers and his father Fonsa, too. He’d worn himself near to death with the caring, and yet it all went wrong, and wrong again.”

She hesitated for a time, and Cazaril was terrified for an instant that he had inadvertently done something to bring this flow of confidences to an end. But apparently she was marshaling . . . not her thoughts, but her heart: for she went on, even more slowly. “I don’t remember now whose idea it first was. We sat in a night council, the three of us, after Teidez was born. I still had the sight. We knew both of our children were drawn into this dark thing, and poor Orico, too. ‘Save my children,’ Ias cried, laying his forehead down upon the table, weeping. ‘Save my children.’ And Lord dy Lutez said, ‘For the love I bear you, I will try; I will dare this sacrifice.’”

He scarcely dared whisper it. “But five gods, how?”

Her head jerked. “We discussed a hundred schemes; how might one kill a man, and yet bring him back to die again? Impossible, and yet not quite. We finally settled on drowning as the best to try. It would occasion the least physical injury, and there were many stories of people who’d been brought back from drowning. Dy Lutez rode out to investigate some of them, to try to determine the trick of it.”

Cazaril’s breath huffed out. Drowning, oh, gods. And in the coldest of cold blood . . . his hands were shaking, too, now. Her voice went on, quiet and relentless.

“We swore a physician to secrecy, and descended to the dungeons of the Zangre. Dy Lutez let himself be stripped and bound, arms and legs tight to his body, and hung upside down over the tank. We lowered him down headfirst. And raised him again, when he stopped struggling at last . . .”

“And he’d died?” said Cazaril softly. “Then the treason charge was . . .”

“Died indeed, but not for the last time. We revived him, just barely.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, it was working, though!” Her hands clenched. “I could feel it, I could see it, the crack in the curse! But dy Lutez—his nerve broke. The next night, he would not undertake the second immersion. He cried I was trying to assassinate him, for jealousy’s sake. Then Ias and I . . . made a mistake.”

Cazaril could see where this was going, now. Closing his eyes would not spare him from seeing. He forced them to stay open, and on her face.

“We seized him, and made the second trial by force. He screamed and wept . . . Ias wavered, I cried, ‘But we have to! Think of the children!’ But this time when we drew him out, he was drowned dead, and not all our tears and prayers revived him then.

“Ias was shattered. I was distraught. My inner vision was stripped from my eyes. The gods turned their faces from me . . .”

“Then the treason charge was false.” Profoundly false.

“Yes. A lie, to hide our sins. To explain the body.” Her breath drew in. “But his family was allowed to inherit his estate—nothing was attaindered.”

“Except his reputation. His public honor.” An honor that had been all in all to proud dy Lutez; who had valued all his wealth and glory but as outward signs of it.

“It was done in the panic of the moment, and then we could not draw back from it. Of all our regrets, I think that one gnawed Ias the most, in the months after.

“Ias would not try again, would not try to find another volunteer. It had to be a willing sacrifice, you see; no struggling murder would have done it, but only a man stepping forth of his own volition, with eyes wide-open. Ias turned his face to the wall and died of grief and guilt”—her hands stretched the scrap of lace almost to tearing—“leaving me alone with two little children and no way to protect or save them from this . . . black . . . thing . . .” She drew breath, her chest heaving. But she did not spiral into hysteria, as Cazaril, tensing to spring up and call for her attendants, feared. As her breathing slowed, he let his muscles slacken again. “But you,” she said at last. “The gods have touched you?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

An unsteady laugh left his lips. “Aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It was his turn for confession, now. He might shade the truth with others, for expediency’s sake. Not with Ista. He owed her weight for weight and value for value. Wound for wound. “How much news had you from Cardegoss of Iselle’s brief betrothal, and Lord Dondo dy Jironal’s fate?”

“One messenger followed atop another before we could celebrate—we could not tell what to make of it.”

“Celebrate? A forty-year-old matched to a sixteen-year-old?”

Her chin came up, for a moment so like Iselle that Cazaril caught his breath. “Ias and I were further apart in age than that.”

Ah. Yes. That would tend to give her a different view of such things. “Dondo was no Ias, my lady. He was corrupt—debauched—impious, an embezzler—and I am almost certain he had Ser dy Sanda murdered. Maybe even by his own hand. He was colluding with his brother Martou to gain complete control of the House of Chalion, through Orico, Teidez—and Iselle.”

Ista’s hand touched her throat. “I met Martou, years ago, at court. He already aspired then to be the next Lord dy Lutez. Dy Lutez, the brightest, noblest star ever to shine in the court of Chalion—Martou might have studied to clean his boots, barely. Dondo, I never met.”

“Dondo was a disaster. I first encountered him years ago, and he had no character then. He grew worse with age. Iselle was distraught, and furious to have him forced upon her. She prayed to the gods to release her from this abominable match, but the gods . . . didn’t answer. So I did.

“I stalked him for a day, intending to assassinate him for her, but I couldn’t get near him. So I prayed to the Bastard for a miracle of death magic. And I was granted it.”

After a moment, Ista’s eyebrows went up. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“I thought I was dying. When I awoke to find Dondo dead without me, I didn’t know what to think. But Umegat determined Iselle’s prayers had brought down a second miracle, and the Lady of Spring had spared my life from the Bastard’s demon, but only temporarily. Saint Umegat—I thought he was a groom—” His story was growing hopelessly tangled. He took a deep breath, and backed up and explained about Umegat and the miracle of the menagerie, and how it had preserved poor Orico in the teeth of the curse.

“Except that Dondo, before he died, when he still thought he was about to be married to Iselle, told Teidez it was the other way around—that the menagerie was an evil Roknari sorcery set up to sicken Orico. And Teidez believed him. Five days ago, he took his Baocian guard and slew nearly every sacred animal in it, and only by chance failed to slay the saint as well. He took a scratch from Orico’s dying leopard—I swear, it was only a scratch! If I had realized . . . The wound became poisoned. His end was . . .” Cazaril remembered who he was talking to. “. . . was very quick.”

“Poor Teidez,” whispered Ista, staring away. “My poor Teidez. You were born to be betrayed, I think.”

“Anyway,” finished Cazaril, “because of this strange concatenation of miracles, the death demon and the ghost of Dondo were bound in my belly. Encapsulated in some kind of tumor, evidently. When they are released, I will die.”

Ista’s grieving face went still. Her eyes rose to search Cazaril’s face. “That would be twice,” she said.

“Ah . . . eh?”

Her hands abandoned the tortured handkerchief, and went out to grip Cazaril’s collar. Her gaze became scorching, almost painful in its intensity. Her breath came faster. “Are you Iselle’s dy Lutez?”

“I, I, I,” stammered Cazaril; his stomach sank.

“Twice. Twice. But how to accomplish the third? Oh. Oh. Oh . . .” Her eyes were dilated, the pupils pulsing. Her lips shivered with hope. “What are you?”

“I, I, I’m only Cazaril, my lady! I am no dy Lutez, I am sure. I am not brilliant, or rich, or strong. Or beautiful, the gods know. Or brave, though I fight when I’m trapped, I suppose.”

She made an impatient gesture. “Take away all those ornaments—stripped, naked, upside down, the man still shone. Faithful. Unto death. Only . . . not unto two deaths. Or three.”

“I—this is madness, now. This is not the way I intend to break the curse, I promise you.” Five gods, not drowning. “I have another plan to rescue Iselle from it.”

Her eyes probed him, still with that frightening wildness. “Have the gods spoken to you, then?”

“No. I go by my reason.”

She sat back, to his relief releasing him, and her brows crimped in puzzlement. “Reason? In this?”

“Sara—and you—married into the House and the curse of Chalion. I think Iselle can marry out of it. This escape could not have been available to Teidez, but now . . . I am on my way to Ibra, to try to arrange Iselle’s marriage with Ibra’s new Heir, Royse Bergon. Dy Jironal will seek to prevent this, because it will spell the end of his power in Chalion. Iselle means to slip away from him by bringing Teidez’s body back here to Valenda to be buried.” Cazaril detailed Iselle’s plan to ride with the cortege, then rendezvous with Bergon in Valenda.

“Maybe,” breathed Ista. “Maybe . . .”

He was unsure what she was referring to. She was still giving him an extremely unsettling look.

“Your mother,” he said. “Does she know of all this? The curse, the true tale of dy Lutez?”

“I tried to tell her, once. She decided I was truly mad. It’s not a bad life, being mad, you know. It has its advantages. You don’t have to make any decisions. What to eat, what to wear, where to go . . . who lives, who dies . . . You can try it yourself, if you like. Just tell the truth. Tell people you are pregnant with a demon and a ghost, and you have a tumor that talks vilely to you, and the gods guard your steps, and see what happens next.” Her throaty laugh did not incline Cazaril to smile along. Her lips twisted. “Don’t look so alarmed, Lord Cazaril. If I repeat your story, you have only to deny me, and I will be thought mad, not you.”

“I . . . think you have been denied enough. Lady.”

She bit her lip and looked away; her body trembled.

Cazaril shifted, and was reminded of his saddlebag, leaning against his hip. “Iselle wrote you a letter, and one to her grandmother, and charged me to deliver them to you.” He burrowed into the bag, found his packet of correspondence, and handed Ista her letter. His hands were shaking from fatigue and hunger. Among other things. “I should go get rid of this dirt and eat something. By the time the Provincara returns, perhaps I can make myself fit for her company.”

Ista held the letter to her breast. “Call my ladies to me, then. I shall retire now, I think. No reason more to wake . . .”

Cazaril glanced up sharply. “Iselle. Iselle is a reason to wake.”

“Ah. Yes. One more hostage to go. Then I can sleep forever.” She leaned forward and patted his shoulder in an odd reassurance. “But for now I will just sleep tonight. I’m so tired. I think I must have done all my mourning and wailing in advance, and there is none left in me now. All emptied out.”

“I understand, lady.”

“Yes, you do. How strange.”

Cazaril reached gingerly out to the bench, pushed himself up, and went to let the weepy attendants back in. Ista set her teeth and suffered them to descend upon her. Cazaril hoisted his saddlebags and bowed himself out.

A wash, a change of clothes, and a hot meal did much to restore Cazaril physically, though his mind still reeled from his conversation with Ista. When the servants set him to await the Provincara’s return in her quiet little parlor in the new building, he was grateful for the chance to marshal his thoughts. A cheerful fire was set for him in the chamber’s excellent fireplace. Aching in every bone, he sat in her cushioned chair, sipped well-watered wine, and tried not to nod off. The old lady was not likely to stay out very late.

Indeed, she soon appeared, flanked by her cousin-companion Lady dy Hueltar and the grave Ser dy Ferrej. She was dressed in gala splendor in green satins and velvets, glittering with jewels, but one look at her ashen face told Cazaril that the bad news had already been blurted to her by some excited servant. Cazaril lurched to his feet, and bowed.

She gripped his hands, searching his face. “Cazaril, is it true?”

“Teidez has died, suddenly, of an infection. Iselle is well”—he took a breath—“and Heiress of Chalion.”

“Poor boy! Poor boy! Have you told Ista yet?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear. How did she take it?”

Well did not describe it. Cazaril chose, “Calmly, Your Grace. At least, she did not fly into any sort of wild pelter, as I’d feared. I think the blows her life has dealt her have left her numb. I don’t know how she’ll be tomorrow. Her attendants have put her to bed.”

The Provincara vented a sigh and blinked back tears.

Cazaril knelt to his saddlebags. “Iselle entrusted me with a letter for you. And there is a note for you, Ser dy Ferrej, from Betriz. She did not have time to write much.” He handed out the two sealed missives. “They will both be coming here. Iselle means to have Teidez buried in Valenda.”

“Oh,” said the Provincara, cracking the cold wax of the letter’s seal, careless of where the sprinkles fell. “Oh, how I long to see her.” Her eyes devoured the penned lines. “Short,” she complained. Her gray eyebrows went up. “Cazaril will explain everything to you, she says.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I have much to tell you, some of it in confidence.”

She waved out her companions. “Go, I will call you back.” Dy Ferrej was breaking open his letter by the time he reached the door.

She sat with a rustle of fabric, still clutching the paper, and gestured Cazaril to another chair, which he pulled up to her knee. “I must see to Ista before she sleeps.”

“I’ll try to be succinct, Your Grace. This is what I have learned this season in Cardegoss. What I went through to learn it . . .” That cost, the cracking open of his world, Ista had understood at once; he was not sure the Provincara would grasp it. “Doesn’t matter now. But Archdivine Mendenal in Cardegoss can confirm the truth of it all, if you get a chance at him. Tell him I sent you, and he will deny you nothing.”

Her brows went up. “How is it you bend an archdivine?”

Cazaril snorted softly. “I pull rank.”

She sat up, her lips thinning. “Cazaril, don’t make stupid jokes with me. You grow as cryptic as Ista.”

Yes, Ista’s self-protective sense of—not humor, irony—likely was irritating, at close quarters. Ista. Who spoke for Ista? “Provincara . . . your daughter is heartbroken, ravaged in will. She longs for the release of death. But she is not mad. The gods are not so merciful.”

The old woman hunched, as though his words grated over a raw spot. “Her grief is extravagant. Was no woman ever widowed before? Has none lost a child? I’ve suffered both, but I did not moan and mope and carry on so, not for years. I cried my hour, yes, but then I continued about my duties. If she is not broken in reason, then she is vastly self-indulgent.”

Could he make her understand Ista’s differences without violating Ista’s tacit confidences? Well, even a partial truth might help. He bent his head to hers. “It all goes back to the great war of Fonsa the Fairly-Wise with the Golden General . . .” In the plainest possible terms, he detailed the inner workings of the curse upon the history of the House of Chalion. There were enough other disasters in Ias’s reign that he scarcely needed to touch on the fall of dy Lutez. Orico’s impotence, the slow corruption of his advisors, the failure of both his policies and his health brought the tale to the present.

The Provincara scowled. “Is all this vile luck a work of Roknari black magic, then?”

“Not . . . as I understand it. It is a spillage, a perversion of some ineffable divinity, lost from its proper place.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. If it acts like black magic, then black magic it is. The practical question is, how to counter it?”

Cazaril wasn’t sure about that close enough. Surely only correct understanding could lead to correct action. Ista and Ias had tried to force a solution, as though the curse were magic, to be countered by magic. A rite done by rote.

She added, “And does this link to this wild tale we heard of Dondo dy Jironal being murdered by death magic?”

That, at least, he could answer, none better. He had already decided to strip out as much of the unnatural detail as possible from her version of events. He did not think her confidence in him would be augmented by his babbling of demons, ghosts, saints, second sight, and even more grotesque things. More than enough remained to astound her. He began with the tale of Iselle’s disastrous betrothal, although he did not attribute the source of Dondo’s death miracle, concealing his act of murder as he’d concealed Ista’s.

The Provincara was not so squeamish. “If Lord Dondo was as bad as you say,” she sniffed, “I shall say prayers for that unknown benefactor!”

“Indeed, Your Grace. I pray for him daily.”

“And Dondo a mere younger son—for Iselle! What was that fool Orico thinking?”

Abandoning the ineffable, he presented the menagerie to her as a marvel devised by the Temple to preserve Orico’s failing health, true enough as far as it went. She grasped instantly the secret political purpose of Dondo’s setting Teidez to its—and Orico’s—destruction, and ground her teeth. She moaned for Teidez’s betrayal. But the news that Valenda must now prepare for a funeral, a wedding, and a war, possibly simultaneously, revitalized her.

“Can Iselle count on her uncle dy Baocia’s support?” Cazaril asked her. “How many others can he and you bring in against dy Jironal’s faction?”

The Provincara made rapid inventory of the lords she might draw in to Valenda, ostensibly for Teidez’s funeral, in fact to pry Iselle from dy Jironal’s hands. The list impressed him. After all her decades of political observation in Chalion, the Provincara didn’t even need to look at a map to plan her tactics.

“Have them ride in for Teidez’s funeral with every man they can muster,” said Cazaril. “Especially, we must control the roads between here and Ibra, to guarantee the safety of Royse Bergon.”

“Difficult,” said the Provincara, sitting back with her lips pursing. “Some of dy Jironal’s own lands, and those of his brothers-in-law, lie between here and the border. You should have a troop to ride with you. I will strip Valenda to give you the men.”

“No,” said Cazaril slowly. “You’ll need all your men when Iselle arrives, which may well be before I can return. And if I take a troop to Ibra, our speed will be limited. We cannot hope to obtain remounts on the road for so large a company, and maintaining secrecy would become impossible. Better we should travel outward light and fast and unmarked. Save the troop to meet us coming back. Oh, and beware, your Baocian captain you sent with Teidez sold himself to Dondo—he cannot be trusted. You’ll have to find some way to replace him when he returns.”

The Provincara swore. “Bastard’s demons, I’ll have his ears.”

They made plans to pass his ciphered letters to Iselle, and hers to him, through Valenda, making it appear to dy Jironal’s spies that Cazaril still was in her grandmother’s company. The Provincara undertook to pawn some of Iselle’s jewelry for him on the morrow, at the best rate, to raise the coin he’d need for the next part of his journey. They settled a dozen other practical details in as many minutes. Her very determination made her god-proof, Cazaril imagined; for all her attention to pious ceremony, no god was going to slip into that iron will even edgewise. The gods had given her less perilous gifts, and he was grateful enough for them.

“You understand,” he said at last, “I think this marriage scheme may rescue Iselle. I don’t know that it will also save Ista.” Neither Ista, drifting sadly about the castle of Valenda, nor Orico, lying blind and bloated in the Zangre. And no exhortation of the Provincara to Ista to bestir herself would be of any use, while this black thing still choked her like a poisoned fog.

“If it only rescues Iselle from the clutches of Chancellor dy Jironal, it will satisfy me. I can’t believe Orico made such vile provisions in his will.” That legal note had exercised her almost more than the supernatural matters. “Taking my granddaughter from me without even consulting me!”

Cazaril fingered his beard. “You realize, if all this succeeds, your granddaughter will become your liege lord. Royina in her own right of all Chalion, and royina-consort of Ibra.”

Her lips screwed up. “That’s the maddest part of all. She’s just a girl! Not but that she always had more wits than poor Teidez. What can all the gods of Chalion be thinking, to place such a child on the throne at Cardegoss!”

Cazaril said mildly, “Perhaps that the restoration of Chalion is the work of a very long lifetime, and that no one so old as you or I could live to see it through.”

She snorted. “You’re barely more than a child yourself. Children in charge of the whole world these days, no wonder it’s all gone mad. Well . . . well. We must bustle about tomorrow. Five gods, Cazaril, go sleep, though I doubt I shall. You look like death warmed over, and you haven’t my years to excuse you.”

Creakily, he clambered to his feet and bowed himself out. The Provincara’s bursts of irate energy were fragile. It would take all her retainers’ aid to prevent her from exhausting herself dangerously. He found the anxiously waiting Lady dy Hueltar in the next room, and sent her in to attend upon her lady cousin.

They gave Cazaril back his chilly, honorable, customary chamber in the main keep. He slid gratefully between heated sheets. It was as much like coming home as anything he’d experienced for years. Yet his new eyes rendered familiar places strange again; the world made strange as he was remade, over and over, and no place to rest at last.

Dondo, in all his motley ghostly glory, scarcely kept Cazaril awake that night. He had become a danger almost too routine to be dreaded. Fresh fears assailed Cazaril now.

Memory of the terrible hope in Ista’s eyes unnerved him. And the reflection that tomorrow, he would mount a horse whose every stride would carry him closer to the sea.