The Curse of Chalion

It was a face of the most profound grief; Cazaril was put in mind of men's looks that he had seen, broken in not just body but soul by the dungeon or the horrors of the galleys. Or of his own, seen dimly in a polished steel mirror in the Mother's house in Ibra, when the acolytes had shaved his nerveless face and encouraged him to look, see, wasn't that better? Yet he was quite certain the royina had never been within smelling distance of a dungeon in her life, never felt the bite of the lash, never, perhaps, even felt a man's hand raised against her in anger. What, then? He stood still, lips parted, afraid to speak.

At a creak and a bustle behind him, he glanced round to see the Dowager Provincara, attended by her cousin, slip inside. She flicked an eyebrow at him in passing; he jerked a little bow. The waiting women attending upon the royina started, and rose, offering ghostly curtseys.

The Provincara strode up the aisle between the benches and studied her daughter expressionlessly. "Oh, dear. How long has she been here?"

One of the waiting women half curtseyed again. "She rose in the night, Your Grace. We thought it better to let her come down than to fight her. As you instructed..."

"Yes, yes." The Provincara waved away this nervous excuse. "Did she get any sleep at all?"

"One or two hours, I think, my lady."

The Provincara sighed, and knelt by her daughter. Her voice went gentle, all the tartness drained out; for the first time, Cazaril heard the age in it.

"Ista, heart. Rise and go back to bed. Others will take over the praying today."

The prone woman's lips moved, twice, before words whispered out. "If the gods hear. If they hear, they do not speak. Their faces are turned from me, Mother."

Almost awkwardly, the old woman stroked her hair. "Others will pray today. We'll light all the candles new, and try again. Let your ladies put you back to bed. Up, now."

The royina sniffed, blinked, and, reluctantly, rose. At a jerk of the Provincara's head, the waiting ladies hurried forward to guide the royina out of the hall, gathering up her dropping shawls behind her. Cazaril searched her face anxiously as she passed, but found no signs of wasting illness, no yellow tinge to her skin or eyes, no emaciation. She scarcely seemed to see Cazaril; no recognition flickered in her eyes for the bearded stranger. Well, there was no reason she should remember him, merely one of dozens of pages in and out of dy Baocia's household over the years.

The Provincara's head turned back as the door closed behind her daughter. Cazaril was close enough to see her quiet sigh.

He made her a deeper bow. "I thank you for these festival garments, Your Grace. If..." he hesitated. "If there's anything I can do to ease your burdens, lady, or those of the royina, just ask."

She smiled, and took his hand and patted it rather absently, but didn't answer. She went to open the window shutters on the room's east side, to let in the peach-colored dawn glow.

Around the altar, Lady dy Hueltar blew out the candles and gathered up all the stubby ends in a basket brought for that purpose. The Provincara and Cazaril went to help her replace the sad lumps in each holder with a fresh, new beeswax candle. When the dozens of candles were standing up like young soldiers each in front of their respective tablets, the Provincara stepped back and gave a satisfied nod.

The rest of the household began arriving then, and Cazaril took a seat out of the way on a back bench. Cooks, servants, stableboys, pages, the huntsman and the falconer, the upper housekeeper, the castle warder, all in their best clothes, with as much blue and white as could be managed, filed in and sat. Then Lady Betriz led in Royesse Iselle, fully dressed and a trifle stiff in the elaborate, multilayered and brilliantly embroidered robes of the Lady of Spring, whose part she was selected to play today. They took an attentive seat on a front bench and managed not to giggle together. They were followed by a divine of the Holy Family from the temple in town, his vestments too changed from yesterday's black-and-gray robes of the Father to the blue-and-white of the Daughter. The divine led the assembly in a short service for the succession of the season and the peace of the dead here represented, and, as the first rays of sun fingered through the east window, ceremonially extinguished the last candle left burning, the last flame anywhere in the household.

All then adjourned for a cold breakfast set up on trestles in the courtyard. Cold, but not sparing; Cazaril reminded himself that he needn't try to make up for three years of privation in a day, and that he had some up- and downhill walking coming up soon. Still, he was happily replete when the royesse's white mule was led in.