The Curse of Chalion

She nodded. "But as soon as we heard the chancellor's men were coming to fetch her back to Cardegoss, Iselle was frantic to escape Valenda. Because once he'd got her close-confined, he could put about any story he pleased of her behavior, and who would there be to deny it? He might get the provincars of Chalion to approve the extension of his regency for the poor mad girl for as long as he pleased, without ever having to raise a sword." She took a breath. "And so she dares not mention the curse."

"I see. She is wise to be wary. Well, the gods willing it will soon be over."

"The gods and the Castillar dy Cazaril."

He made a little warding gesture and took another sip of tea. "When did dy Jironal learn I was gone to Ibra?"

"I don't think he guessed anything till after the cortege reached Valenda, and you weren't to be found there. The old Provincara said he received some reports from his Ibran spies—I think that's partly why, anxious as he was to get back and block dy Yarrin from Orico, he would not leave Valenda till he had his own household troops installed there."

"He sent assassins to intercept me at the border. I wonder if he thought I would just be returning alone, with the next round of negotiations? I don't think he expected Royse Bergon so soon."

"No one did. Except Iselle." She rubbed her fingers across the fine black wool of her vest-cloak lying over her knee. Her next glance up at him was uncomfortably penetrating. "While you have spent yourself trying to save Iselle... have you discovered how to save yourself?"

He was silent a moment, then said simply, "No."

"It's... it's not right."

He glanced vaguely around the deliciously sunny court, avoiding her eyes. "I like this nice new building. It has no ghosts in it at all, do you know?"

"You're changing the subject." Her frown deepened. "You do that a lot when you don't want to talk about something. I just realized."

"Betriz..." He softened his voice. "Our feet were set on different paths from the night I called down death upon Dondo. I can't go back. You are going to be living, and I am not. We can't go on together, even if... well, we just can't."

"You don't know how much time you're given. It could be weeks. Months. But if an hour is all the gift the gods give us, all the more insult to the gods to scorn it."

"It's not the shortage of time." He shifted miserably. "It's the abundance of company. Think of us alone together—you, me, Dondo, the death demon... am I not a horror to you?" His tone grew almost pleading. "I assure you I'm a horror to me!"

She glanced at his gut, then stared off across the courtyard, her jaw set mulishly. "I do not believe that being haunted is catching. Do you think I lack the courage?"

"Never that," he breathed.

She addressed her feet in a growl. "I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was."

"What, didn't you read old Ordol's book while you were helping Iselle cipher those letters? He claims that the gods, and we, are both right here all the time, a shadow's thickness apart. We've no distance to cross at all to get to each other." I can see their world from where I sit, in fact. So Ordol was right. "But you cannot force the gods. It's only fair, I suppose. They cannot force us, either."

"You're doing it again. Twisting the topic."

"What are you planning to wear tomorrow? Shall it be pretty? You're not allowed to outshine the bride, you know."

She glared at him.

Up on the gallery, Lady dy Baocia popped out of Iselle's chambers and called down to Betriz a complicated question involving what seemed to Cazaril a great many different fabrics. Betriz waved back and rose reluctantly to her feet. She flung rather sharply over her shoulder, as she made for the staircase, "Well, that may all be so, and you as doomed as you please, but if I'm thrown from a horse tomorrow and break my neck, I hope you feel a fool!"

"More of a fool," he murmured to the swish of her retreating skirts. The bright courtyard was a blur in his disobedient eyes, and he rubbed them clear with a hard, surreptitious swipe of his sleeve.

THE WEDDING DAY DAWNED AS FAIR AS HOPED. The orange-blossom-scented courtyard was crowded as it could hold when Iselle, attended by her aunt and Betriz, appeared at the top of the gallery stairs. Cazaril tilted his face up and squinted happily. The tire-women had performed heroic feats with silks and satins, garbing her in all the shades of blue proper for a bride. Her blue vest-cloak was trimmed with as many Ibran pearls as could be found in Taryoon, patterned as a frieze of stylized leopards. A smattering of applause broke out as, moving a little stiffly in all her finery, she smiled and descended the steps. Her hair gleamed like a river of treasure in the sunlight. Two dy Baocia girl-cousins managed her train, under the sporadic direction of their mother. Even the curse seemed to wrap about her like some trailing sable robe. But not for much longer...