The Curse of Chalion

"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?"