The Curse of Chalion

"I slew the rat, and broke the poor crow, and I prayed on my knees. And then I hurt. I wasn't expecting that. And I couldn't breathe. The candles went out. And I said, Thank you, because I felt..." He could not speak of what he'd felt, that strange peace, as if he'd lain down in a place of safety to rest forever. "And then I passed out. I thought I was dying."

"And then?"

"Then... nothing. I woke up in the dawn fog, sick and cold and feeling an utter fool. No, wait—I'd had a nightmare about Dondo choking to death. But I knew I'd failed. So I crawled back to bed. And then dy Jironal came bursting in..."

Umegat drummed his fingers on the table a moment, staring at him through slitted eyes. And then he stared with his eyes closed. Open again. "My lord, may I touch you?"

"All right..." Briefly, as the Roknari bent over him, Cazaril feared some unwelcome attempt at intimacy, but Umegat's touch was as professional as any physician's; forehead, face, neck, spine, heart, belly... Cazaril tensed, but Umegat's hand descended no farther. When he finished, Umegat's face was set. The Roknari went to fetch another jug of wine from a basket by the door before returning to his chair.

Cazaril attempted to fend the jug from his cup. "I've had enough. I'll be stumbling if I take any more."

"My grooms can walk you back to your chambers in a little while. No?" Umegat filled his own cup instead, and sat again. He ran his finger over the tabletop in a little pattern, repeated three times—Cazaril wasn't sure if it was a charm or just nerves—and finally said, "By the testimony of the sacred animals, no god accepted the soul of Dondo dy Jironal. Normally, that is a sign that an unquiet spirit is abroad in the world, and relatives and friends—and enemies—rush to buy rites and prayers from the Temple. Some for the sake of the dead—some for their own protection."

"I am sure," said Cazaril a little bitterly, "Dondo will have all the prayers that money can buy."

"I hope so."

"Why? What... ?" What do you see? What do you know?

Umegat glanced up, and inhaled. "Dondo's spirit was taken by the death demon, but not passed to the gods. This we know. It is my conjecture that the death demon could not return to its master because it was prevented from taking the second and balancing soul."

Cazaril licked his lips, and husked fearfully, "How, prevented?"

"At the instant of attempting to do so, I believe the demon was captured—constrained—bound, if you will—by a second and simultaneous miracle. Judging by the distinctive colors boiling off you, it was from the holy and gracious hand of the Lady of Spring. If I am right, the acolytes of the Temple can all go back to bed, for Dondo's spirit is not abroad. It is bound to the death demon, who is bound in turn to the locus of the second soul. Which is presently bound to its still-living body." Umegat's finger rose to point directly at Cazaril. "There."

Cazaril's jaw fell open. He stared down at his aching, swollen belly, and back up at the fascinated... saint. Briefly, he was put in mind of Fonsa's entranced crows. Violent denial boiled to his lips, and caught there, stopped by his inner sight of Umegat's clear aura. "I didn't pray to the Daughter last night!"

"Apparently, someone did."

Iselle. "The royesse said she prayed. Did you see her as I saw her today—" Cazaril made inarticulate motions with his hands, not knowing what words to use to describe that roiling perturbation. "Is that what you see in me? Does Iselle see me as I do her?"

"Did she say anything about it?" asked Umegat.

"No. But neither did I."

Umegat gave him that sidewise stare again. "Did you ever see, when you were in the Archipelago, the nights when the sea was Mother-touched? The way the wake glowed green in the breaking waves of a ship's passage?"

"Yes..."

"What you saw around Iselle was such a wake. The passage of the Daughter, like a lingering perfume in the air. What I see in you is not a passage but a Presence. A blessing. Far more intense. Your corona is slowly dying down—the sacred animals should be less enthralled by you in a day or two—but at the center there sits a tight blue core of sapphire, into which I cannot see. I think it is an encapsulation." He brought his cupped hands together like a man enclosing a live lizard.

Cazaril swallowed, and panted, "Are you saying the goddess has turned my belly into a perfect little annex of hell? One demon, one lost soul, sealed together like two snakes in a bottle?" His clawed hands went to his stomach, as if ready to rip his guts apart on the spot. "And you call it a blessing?"

Umegat's eyes remained serious, but his brows crimped in sympathy. "Well, what is a blessing but a curse from another point of view? If it's any consolation to you, I imagine Dondo dy Jironal is even less happy about this development than you are." He added after a thoughtful moment, "I can't imagine the demon is too pleased with it, either."