The Curse of Chalion

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?"