The Curse of Chalion

THE WEATHER TURNED CHILL AND RAINY, THE RIVERS swelling, as the Son's season ran toward its close. At the musicale after supper one sodden evening, Orico leaned over to his sister, and murmured, "Bring your people to the throne room tomorrow at noon, and attend dy Jironal's investiture. I'll have some happy announcements afterward to make to the whole court. And wear your most festive raiment. Oh, and your pearls—Lord Dondo was saying only last night, he never sees you wear his pearls."

"I do not think they become me," Iselle replied. She glanced sideways at Cazaril, seated nearby, and then down at her hands tightening in her lap.

"Nonsense, how can pearls not become any maiden?" The roya sat back to applaud the sprightly piece just ending.

Iselle kept her lips closed upon this suggestion until Cazaril had escorted his ladies as far as his office antechamber. He was about to bid them to sleep well, and depart, yawning, to his own bed, when she burst out, "I am not wearing that thief Lord Dondo's pearls. I would give them back to the Daughter's Order, but I swear they would be an insult to the goddess. They're tainted. Cazaril, what can I do with them?"

"The Bastard is not a fussy god. Give them to the divine of his foundling hospital, to sell for the orphans," he suggested.

Her lips curved. "Wouldn't that annoy Lord Dondo. And he couldn't even protest! Good idea. You shall take them to the orphans, with my goodwill. And for tomorrow—I'll wear my red velvet vest-cloak over my white silk gown, that will certainly be festive, and my garnet set Mama gave me. None can chide me for wearing my mother's jewels."

Nan dy Vrit said, "But what do you suppose your brother meant by happy announcements? You don't think he's determined upon your betrothal already, do you?"

Iselle went still, blinking, but then said decisively, "No. It can't be. There must be months of negotiations first—ambassadors, letters, exchanges of presents, treaties for the dowry—and my assent won. My portrait taken. And I will have a portrait of the man, whoever he may turn out to be. A true and honest portrait, by an artist I send myself. If my prince is fat, or squinty, or bald, or has a lip that hangs loose, so be it, but I will not be lied to in paint."

Betriz made a face at the image this conjured. "I do hope you'll win a handsome lord, when the time does come."

Iselle sighed. "It would be nice, but given most of the great lords I've seen, not likely. I should settle for healthy, I think, and not plague the gods with impossible prayers. Healthy, and a Quintarian."

"Very sensible," Cazaril put in, encouraging this practical frame of mind with an eye to easing his life in the near future.

Betriz said uneasily, "There have been a great many envoys from the Roknari princedoms in and out of court this fall."

Iselle's mouth tightened. "Mm."

"There are not a great many Quintarian choices, amongst the highest lords," Cazaril conceded.

"The roya of Brajar is a widower again," Nan dy Vrit put in, pursing her lips in doubt.

Iselle waved this away. "Surely not. He's fifty-seven years old, has gout, and he already has an heir full-grown and married. Where's the point of my having a son friendly to his Uncle Orico—or his Uncle Teidez, if it should chance so—if he's not ruling his land?"

"There's Brajar's grandson," said Cazaril.

"Seven years old! I'd have to wait seven more years—"

Not, Cazaril thought, altogether a bad thing.

"Now is too soon, but that is too long. Anything could happen in seven years. People die, countries go to war..."

"It's true," said Nan dy Vrit, "your father Roya Ias betrothed you at the age of two to a Roknari prince, but the poor lad took a fever and died soon after, so that never came to anything. Or you would have been taken off to his princedom these two years ago."

Betriz said, a little teasingly, "The Fox of Ibra's a widower, too."

Iselle choked. "He's over seventy!"

"Not fat, though. And I suppose you wouldn't have to endure him for very long."

"Ha. He could live another twenty years just for spite, I think—he's full enough of it. And his Heir is married, too. I think his second son is the only royse in the lands who's near to my age, and he's not the heir."

"You won't be offered an Ibran this year, Royesse," said Cazaril. "The Fox is exceedingly wroth with Orico for his clumsy meddling in the war in South Ibra."

"Yes, but... they say all the Ibran high lords are trained as naval officers," said Iselle, taking on an introspective look.

"Well, and how useful is that likely to be to Orico?" Nan dy Vrit snorted. "Chalion has not one yard of coastline."

"To our cost," Iselle murmured.