The Curse of Chalion

They hadn't even started yet; what had Betriz been telling them? "Yes, it's all fine," Cazaril assured him. "Thank you." Ferda presented him with his reins, and Foix assisted him in tying on his precious saddlebags. Ferda leapt lightly aboard his horse, his brother climbed more heavily onto his, and they started out of the stable yard. Cazaril turned in his saddle to watch Iselle and Betriz making their way back across the drawbridge and through the Zangre's great gate. Betriz looked back, and raised her hand high; Cazaril returned the salute. Then the horses rounded the first corner, and the buildings of Cardegoss hid the gate from his view. A single crow followed them, swooping from gutter to cornice.

On the first street, they met Chancellor dy Jironal riding slowly up from Jironal Palace, flanked by two armed retainers on foot. He'd obviously been home to wash and eat and change his clothes, and attend to his more urgent correspondence. Judging from his gray face and bloodshot eyes, he'd had no more sleep than Iselle the night past.

Dy Jironal reined in, and gave Cazaril an odd little salute. "Where away, Lord Cazaril"—his eye took in the light courier saddles, stamped with the castle-and-leopard of Chalion—"upon my Chancellery's horses?"

Cazaril returned a half bow from his saddle. "Valenda, my lord. The Royesse Iselle decided she did not want some stranger bearing the bad news to her mother and grandmother, and has dispatched me as her courier."

"Mad Ista, eh?" Dy Jironal's lips screwed up. "I do not envy you that task."

"Indeed." Cazaril let his voice go hopeful. "Order me back to Iselle's side, and I shall obey you at once."

"No, no." Dy Jironal's lip curled just slightly in satisfaction. "I can think of no man more fitted for this sad duty. Ride on. Oh—when do you mean to return?"

"I'm not yet sure. Iselle desired me to be sure her mother was going to be all right before I returned. I do not expect Ista to take the news well."

"Truly. Well, we'll watch for you."

I wager you will. He and dy Jironal exchanged guarded nods, and the two parties rode on in their opposite directions. Cazaril glanced back to catch dy Jironal glancing back, just before he turned the corner toward the Zangre's gates. Dy Jironal would know no ambush could now catch Cazaril's start on the courier horses. The return was another opportunity. Except that I won't be coming back on this road.

Or at all? He'd turned over in his mind all the disasters that might follow failure; what would be his fate if he succeeded? What did the gods do with used saints? He'd never to his knowledge met one, save perhaps, now, Umegat... a thought that was not, upon consideration, very reassuring.

They reached the city gate and crossed over the bridge to the river road. Fonsa's crow did not follow farther, but perched upon the gate's high crenellations and vented a few sad caws, which echoed as they descended into the ravine. The Zangre's cliff wall, naked of verdure in the winter, rose high and stark across the dark, rapid water of the river. Cazaril wondered if Betriz would watch from one of the castle's high windows as they passed along the road. He wouldn't be able to see her up there, so high and shadowed.

His bleak thoughts were scattered by the thud and splash of hooves. An inbound courier flashed past them, galloping horse lathered and blowing. He—no, she—waved at them in passing. Female couriers were much favored by some of the Chancellery's horse-masters, at least on the safer routes, for they claimed their light weight and light hands spared the animals. Foix waved back, and turned in his saddle to watch her flying black braids. Cazaril didn't think he was just admiring her horsemanship.

Ferda nudged his mount up next to Cazaril's. "May we gallop now, my lord?" he asked hopefully. "Daylight is dear, and these beasts are fresh."

But five gods, I'm not. Cazaril took a breath of grim anticipation. "Yes."

He clapped his booted heels to the roan's side, and the animal bounded into a long-strided canter. The road opened before them across the snow-streaked dun landscape, winding into gray mists heavy with the faint sweet rot of winter vegetation. Vanishing into uncertainty.