Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

The sounds of the household stirring—calls from the courtyard, the distant clank of pots—woke Cazaril in the predawn gray. He opened his eyes to a moment of panicked disorientation, but the reassuring embrace of the feather bed drew him down again into drowsy repose. Not a hard bench. Not moving up and down. Not moving at all, oh five gods, that was very heaven. So warm, on his knotted back.

The Daughter's Day celebrations would run from dawn till dark. Perhaps he would lie slugabed till the household had departed for the procession, then get up late. Creep around unobtrusively, lie in the sun with the castle cats. When he grew hungry, dredge up old memories from his days as a page—he'd used to know how to charm the cook for an extra tidbit...

A crisp knock on the door interrupted these pleasant meditations. Cazaril jerked, then relaxed again as Lady Betriz's voice followed: "My lord dy Cazaril? Are you awake? Castillar?"

"A moment, my lady," Cazaril called back. He wallowed to the bed's edge and tore himself from the loving clutch of the mattress. A woven rush mat on the floor kept the morning cold of the stone from nipping his bare feet. He shook the generous linen of the nightgown down over his legs, shuffled to the door, and opened it a crack. "Yes?"

She stood in the corridor with a candle shielded by a blown-glass lantern in one hand and a pile of cloth, leather straps, and something that clanked wedged awkwardly under her other arm. She was fully dressed for the day in a blue gown with a white vest-cloak that fell from shoulder to ankle. Her dark hair was braided up on her head with flowers and leaves. Her velvet brown eyes were merry, glinting in the candle's glow. Cazaril could not help but smile back.

"Her Grace the Provincara bids you a blessed Daughter's Day," she announced, and startled Cazaril into jumping backward by firmly kicking the door open. She rocked her loaded hips through, handed off the candle holder to him with a Here, take this , and dumped her burden on the edge of the bed: piles of blue and white cloth, and a sword with a belt. Cazaril set the candle down on the chest at the foot of the bed. "She sends you these to wear, and if it please you bids you join the household in the ancestors' hall for the dawn prayers. After which we will break our fast, which, she says, you know well where to find."

"Indeed, my lady."

"Actually, I asked Papa for the sword. It's his second-best one. He said it would be an honor to loan it to you." She turned a highly interested gaze upon him. "Is it true you were in the late war?"

"Uh... which one?"

"You've been in more than one?" Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

All of them for the last seventeen years, I think. Well, no. He'd sat out the most recent abortive campaign against Ibra in the dungeons of Brajar, and missed that foolish expedition the roya had sent in support of Darthaca because he'd been busy being inventively tormented by the Roknari general with whom the provincar of Guarida was bargaining so ineptly. Besides those two, he didn't think there had been a defeat in the last decade he'd missed. "Here and there, over the years," he answered vaguely. He was suddenly horridly conscious that there was nothing between his nakedness and her maiden eyes but a thin layer of linen. He twitched inward, clutching his arms across his belly, and smiled weakly.

"Oh," she said, following his gesture. "Have I embarrassed you? But Papa says soldiers have no modesty, on account of having to live all together in the field."

She returned her eyes to his face, which was heating. Cazaril got out, "I was thinking of your modesty, my lady."

"That's all right," she said cheerfully.

She didn't go away.

He nodded toward the pile of clothes. "I didn't wish to intrude upon the family during celebration. Are you sure... ?"

She clasped her hands together earnestly and intensified her gaze. "But you must come to the procession, and you must, you must, you must come to the Daughter's Day quarter-gifting at the temple. The Royesse Iselle is going to play the part of the Lady of Spring this year." She bounced on her toes in her importunity.

Cazaril smiled sheepishly. "Very well, if it please you." How could he resist all this urgent delight? Royesse Iselle must be rising sixteen; he wondered how old Lady Betriz was. Too young for you, old fellow . But surely he might watch her with a purely aesthetic appreciation, and thank the goddesses for her gifts of youth, beauty, and verve howsoever they were scattered. Brightening the world like flowers.

"And besides," Lady Betriz cinched it, "the Provincara bids you."

Cazaril seized the opportunity to light his candle from hers and, by way of a hint that it was time for her to go away and let him dress, handed the glass-globed flame back to her. The doubled light that made her more lovely doubtless made him less so. She'd just turned to go when he bethought him of his prudent question, unanswered last night.

"Wait, lady—"

She turned back with a look of bright inquiry.

"I didn't want to trouble the Provincara, or ask in front of the royse or royesse, but what grieves the Royina Ista? I don't want to say or do something wrong, out of ignorance..."

The light in her eyes died a little. She shrugged. "She's... weary. And nervous. Nothing more. We hope she will feel better, with the coming of the sun. She always seems to do better, in the summertime."

"How long has she been living here with her mother?"

"These six years, sir." She gave him a little half curtsey. "Now I have to go to Royesse Iselle. Don't be late, Castillar!" Her smile dimpled at him again, and she darted out.

He could not imagine that young lady being late anywhere. Her energy was appalling. Shaking his head, though the smile she'd left him still lingered on his lips, he turned to examine the new largesse.

He was certainly moving up to a better grade of castoffs. The tunic was blue silk brocade, the trousers heavy dark blue linen, and the knee-length vest-cloak white wool, all clean, the little mends and stains quite unobtrusive; dy Ferrej's festival gear outgrown, perhaps, or possibly even something packed away from the late provincar. The loose fit was forgiving of this change in ownership. With the sword hung at his left hip, familiar/unfamiliar weight, Cazaril hurried down out of the keep and across the gray courtyard to the household's ancestors' hall.

The air of the courtyard was chill and damp, the cobbles slippery under his thin boot soles. Overhead, a few stars still lingered. Cazaril eased open the big plank door to the hall and peered inside. Candles, figures; was he late? He slipped within, his eyes adjusting.

Not late but early. The tiers of little family memori boards at the front of the room had half a dozen old candle stubs burning before them. Two women, huddled into shawls, sat on the front bench watching over a third.

The Dowager Royina Ista lay before the altar in the attitude of deepest supplication, prone upon the floor, her arms outflung. Her fingers curled and uncurled; the nails were bitten down to the red. A muddle of nightgowns and shawls puddled around her. Her masses of crinkly hair, once gold, now darkened by age to a dull dun, spread out around her head like a fan. For a moment, Cazaril wondered if she had fallen asleep, so still did she lie. But in her pale face, turned sideways with her soft cheek resting directly on the floor, her eyes were open, gray and unblinking, filled with unshed tears.

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.