The Curse of Chalion

"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.