The Curse of Chalion

He shook his head. "If by soon you mean now, I think not. I am much taken up with my duties as a lord dedicat—I have promised dy Yarrin my voice and my vote in the Council."

"You could leave a proxy with dy Yarrin, or some other trusted comrade."

Palli rubbed his shaven chin, and vented a dubious, "Hm."

Cazaril considered claiming to be a saint of the Daughter, and pulling rank on Palli, dy Yarrin, and their entire military order. It would require complicated explanations. It would require divulging the secret of Fonsa's curse. It would entail not merely admitting, but asserting, his... peculiar disorder. God-touched. God-ravished. And sounding as mad or madder than Ista ever had. He compromised. "I think this may be the Daughter's business."

Palli's lips screwed up. "How can you tell?"

"I just can."

"Well, I can't."

"Wait, I know. Before you go to sleep tonight, pray for guidance."

"Me? Why don't you?"

"My nights are... full."

"And since when did you believe in prophetic dreams? I thought you always claimed it was nonsense, people fooling themselves, or pretending to an importance they could otherwise never claim."

"It's a... recent conversion. Look, Palli. Just do it for, for the experiment. To please me, if you will."

Palli made a surrendering gesture. "For you, yes. For the rest of it..." His black brows lowered. "Ibra... ? Just who would I be riding in secret from?"

"Dy Jironal. Mostly."

"Oh? Dy Yarrin might be interested in that. Something in it for him?"

"Not in any direct way, I don't think." Cazaril added reluctantly, "And likewise secret from Orico."

Palli sat back, his head tilting. His voice lowered. "Coy, Caz. Just what kind of noose are you offering to put round my neck, here? Is this treason?"

"Worse," Cazaril sighed. "Theology."

"Eh?"

"Oh, that reminds me." Cazaril pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to decide if his headache was getting worse. "Tell dy Yarrin his councils are being reported by some spy to dy Jironal. Though he may be canny enough to realize it already, I don't know."

"Worse and worse. Are you getting enough sleep, Caz?"

A bark of bitter laughter broke from Cazaril's lips. "No."

"You always did go strangely fey when you were overtired, y'know. Well, I'm not riding anywhere on the basis of a bunch of dark hints."

"In the event, you'd be given full knowledge."

"When I am given full knowledge, then I'll decide."

"Fair enough," Cazaril sighed. "I will discuss it with the royesse. But I didn't want to propose to her a man who would fail her."

"Hey!" said Palli indignantly. "When have I failed?"

"Never, Palli. That's why I thought of you." Cazaril grinned and, with a little grunt of pain, pushed to his feet. "I must return to the Zangre." Briefly, he described the unpleasant progression of Teidez's claw mark.

Palli's face grew very sober indeed. "Just how bad is it?"

"I don't..." Caution tempered Cazaril's frankness. "Teidez is young, strong, well fed. I see no reason why he cannot throw off this infection."

"Five gods, Caz, he's the hope of his House. What will Chalion do if he doesn't? And Orico laid low as well!"

Cazaril hesitated. "Orico... hasn't been well for some time, but I'm sure dy Jironal never imagined them both becoming so sick at once. You might note to dy Yarrin that our dear chancellor is going to be fairly distracted for the next few days. If the lord dedicats want to get past him to Orico's bed and get anything signed, now might be their best chance."

He extracted himself from Palli's cascade of second thoughts, although not from Palli's insistence that he take the dy Gura brothers for escort. Climbing the hill once more, his circling calculations of how to effect Iselle's escape from the wreck of her cursed House spiraled inward on a much simpler grim determination not to fall down in front of these earnest young men, to be hauled home stumbling with his arms across their shoulders.

CAZARIL FOUND THE THIRD-FLOOR CORRIDOR OF THE main block promisingly crowded upon his return. Green-robed physicians and their acolyte assistants scurried in and out. Servants hurried with water, linens, blankets, strange drinks in silver ewers. As Cazaril lingered, wondering what assistance he might offer, the archdivine emerged from the antechamber and started down the corridor, his face set and introspective.

"Your Reverence?" Cazaril touched his five-colored sleeve in passing. "How goes the boy?"

"Ah, Lord Cazaril." Mendenal turned aside briefly. "The chancellor and the royesse have given me purses for prayers on his behalf. I go to set them in motion."

"Do you think... prayers will do any good?" Do you think any prayers will do good?

"Prayer is always good."

No, it's not, Cazaril wanted to reply, but held his tongue.

Mendenal added suggestively, lowering his voice, "Yours might be especially efficacious. At this time."

Not so far as Cazaril had noticed. "Your Reverence, I do not hate any man in this world enough to inflict the results of my prayers upon him."