The Curse of Chalion

"Your colleague the archdivine of Cardegoss knows all about me," Cazaril told the archdivine of Taryoon.

"Oh." The archdivine blinked and looked vastly relieved. Cazaril thought it was a misplaced confidence, but he elected not to rob it from him. "Mendenal is an excellent fellow."

"The Father of Winter has given you some gift, I see," Cazaril said to the petty judge. "What is it?"

Paginine ducked his head nervously. "Sometimes—not every time—He permits me to know who is lying in my justiciar's chamber, and who is telling the truth." Paginine hesitated. "It doesn't always do as much good as you'd think."

Cazaril vented a short laugh.

Paginine brightened visibly to both Cazaril's inner and outer eye, and smiled dryly. "Ah, you understand."

"Oh, yes."

"But you, sir..." Paginine turned to the archdivine with a troubled look. "I said god-touched, but that hardly describes what I'm seeing. It... it almost hurts to look at him. Three times since I was given the sight I have met others who are also god-afflicted, but I've never seen anything like him."

"Saint Umegat in Cardegoss said I looked like a burning city," Cazaril admitted.

"That's..." Paginine eyed him sidewise. "That's well put."

"He was a man of words." Once.

"What is your gift?"

"I, uh... I think I am the gift, actually. To the Royesse Iselle."

The archdivine touched his hand to his lips, then hastily signed himself. "So that explains the stories circulating about you!"

"What stories?" said Cazaril in bewilderment.

"But Lord Cazaril," the judge broke in, "what is that terrible shadow hanging about Royesse Iselle? That is no godly thing! Do you see it, too?"

"I'm... working on it. Getting rid of that ugly thing seems to be my god-given task. I think I'm almost done."

"Oh, that's a relief." Paginine looked much happier.

Cazaril realized he wanted nothing so much as to take Paginine aside to talk shop. How do you deal with these matters? The archdivine might be pious, perhaps a good administrator, possibly a learned theologian, but Cazaril suspected he didn't understand the discomforts of the saint trade. Paginine's bitter smile told all. Cazaril wanted to go get drunk with him, and compare complaints.

To Cazaril's embarrassment, the archdivine bowed low to him, and said in an awed, hushed voice, "Blessed Sir, is there anything I can do for you?"

Betriz's question echoed in his mind, Have you discovered how to save yourself? Maybe you couldn't save yourself. Maybe you had to take turns saving each other... "Tonight, no. Tomorrow... later in the week, there is a personal matter I should like to wait upon you about. If I may."

"Certainly, Blessed Sir. I am at your service."

They returned to the party. Cazaril was exhausted, and longed for bed, but the courtyard below his chamber door was full of noisy revelers. A breathless Betriz asked him once to dance, from which exercise he smilingly excused himself; she didn't lack for partners. Her gaze checked him often, as he sat watching from the wall and nursing his watered wine. He did not lack for company, as a string of men and women struck up friendly conversations with him, angling for employment in the future royina's court. To all of them he returned courteous but noncommittal replies.

The Ibran lords were collecting Chalionese ladies rather as spilled honey collected ants, and looking very happy indeed. Halfway through the evening, Lord dy Cembuer arrived, completing their company and their delight. The Ibrans exchanged tales of their respective journeys, to the awe and fascination of their eager Chalionese listeners. To Cazaril's intense political pleasure, Bergon was cast as the hero of this romantic adventure, with Iselle no less as heroine for her night ride from Valenda. As appealing unifying myths went, this one was going to beat dy Jironal's feeble fable of Poor Mad Iselle all hollow, Cazaril rather thought. And our tale is true!

At last came the hour and the ceremony Cazaril had been breathlessly awaiting, where Bergon and Iselle were conducted up to their bedchamber. Neither, Cazaril was pleased to note, had drunk enough to become inebriated. Since his own wine had somehow grown less watered as the evening progressed, he found himself a little tongue-tied when the royse and royesse called him up to the foot of the staircase to give and receive ceremonial kisses of thanks upon their hands. Moved, he signed himself and called down hopeful blessings on their heads. The solemn grateful intensity of their return gazes discomfited him.

Lady dy Baocia had arranged a small choir to sing prayers to waft the couple on their way upstairs; the crystal voices served to suppress the ribaldry to manageable proportions. Iselle was no more than beautifully blushing and starry-eyed when she and Bergon leaned over the railing to give smiling thanks to all, and throw down flowers.