Lois Bujold - The Curse of Chalion

A few miles out of Cardegoss they encountered another procession on the road. Men in the livery of the provincar of Labran escorted three carts and a trailing tail of mules and servants. Two of the carts were piled with baggage. The third cart's canvas top, rolled up to open the sides to the spring scenery, shaded several ladies.

The ladies' cart pulled to the side of the road and a servingwoman leaned out to call to one of the outriders. The Labran sergeant bent his head to her, rode up in turn to Palli and Cazaril, and saluted.

"If it please you, sirs, if one of you is the Castillar dy Cazaril, my lady the Dowager Royina Sara bid—begs," he corrected himself, "you to wait upon her."

The present provincar of Labran, Cazaril was reminded, was Royina Sara's nephew. He gathered that he was witnessing her removal—or retreat—to her family estates there. He returned the salute. "I am entirely at the royina's service."

Foix helped Cazaril from his horse. Steps were let down from the back of the cart, and the ladies and maidservants descended to stroll together about the fallow field nearby and examine the spring wildflowers. Sara remained seated in the shadow of the canvas. "Please you, Castillar," she called softly, "I am glad for this chance crossing. Can you bide with me a moment?"

"I am honored, lady." He ducked his head and climbed into the cart, seating himself on the padded bench opposite hers. The baggage mules plodded on past them. A peaceful, distant murmur enveloped the scene, of birdsong, low voices, the bridle-jingle and champing of the horses let to graze by the roadside, and the occasional trill of laugher from the maidservants.

Sara was dressed now in a simply cut gown and vest-cloak of lavender and black, mourning for poor doomed Orico, presumably.

"My apologies," said Cazaril, with an acknowledging nod at her garb, "for not attending the roya's funeral. I was not yet recovered enough to travel."

She waved this away. "From what Iselle and Bergon and Lady Betriz have told me, it is a miracle you survived your wounds."

"Yes, well... precisely."

She gave him an oddly sympathetic look.

"Orico was taken up safely, then?" Cazaril asked.

"Yes, by the Bastard. As gods-rejected in death as he was in life. It stirred a bit of unpleasant speculation about his parentage, alas."

"Not so, lady. He was surely Ias's child. I think the Bastard has been special guardian of his House since Fonsa's reign. And so this time the god picked first, not last."

She shrugged her thin shoulders. "A sorry guardianship, if so. On the day before he died, Orico said to me that he wished he'd been born the son of a woodcutter, and not the son of the roya of Chalion. Of all the epitaphs on his death, his own seems the most apposite to me." Her voice grew a shade more sour. "Martou dy Jironal, they say, was taken up by the Father."

"So I had heard. They sent his body to his daughter in Thistan to take charge of. Well, he, too, had his part to play, and little enough joy it brought him in the end." He offered after a moment, "I can personally guarantee you, though, his brother Dondo was carried to the Bastard's hell."

A small, grim smile curved her lips. "Perchance he may learn better manners there."

There seemed nothing to add to this, as epitaphs went.

Cazaril was reminded of a curiosity, and diffidently cleared his throat. "The day before Orico died. And which day would that have been, my lady?"

Her eyes flew to his, and her dark brows went up. After a moment she said, "Why, the day after Iselle's wedding, of course."

"Not the day before? Martou dy Jironal seemed strangely misinformed, then. Not to mention premature in certain of his actions. And... it seems to me very like a certain cursed luck, to die just a day before one's rescue."

"I, and Orico's physician, and Archdivine Mendenal, who all attended on him together, will all swear that Orico yet lived to speak to us that afternoon and evening, and did not breathe his sad last until early the next morning." She met his gaze very directly indeed, her lips still set in that same grim curve. "And so Iselle's marriage to Royse Bergon is unassailably valid."

And thus a legal quibble was rendered unavailable to disaffected lords as a pretext for defiance. Cazaril imagined it, her daylong secret deathwatch beside the gelid bloated corpse of her husband. What had she thought about, what had she reflected upon, as the hours crept by in that sealed chamber? And yet she had made of that horror a pragmatic gift for Iselle and Bergon, for the House of Chalion that she was departing. He pictured her suddenly as a tidy housewife, sweeping out her old familiar rooms for the last time, and leaving a vase of flowers on the hearth for the new owners.

"I... think I see."

"I think you do. You always had very seeing eyes, Castillar." She added after a moment, "And a discreet tongue."

"A condition of my service, Royina."

"You have served the House of Chalion well. Better, perhaps, than it deserved."

"But not half so well as it needed."

She sighed agreement.

He made polite inquiry after her plans; she was indeed returning to her home province, to take residence at a country estate happily to be entirely under her own direction. She seemed not just resigned but eager to escape Cardegoss and leave it to her successors. Cazaril, rising, wished her well, and a safe journey, with all his heart. He kissed her hands; she in turn kissed his and, briefly, touched her fingertips to his forehead as he bent to her.

He watched her train of carts rumble away, wincing in sympathy as they jounced over the ruts. The roads of Chalion could use improvement, Cazaril decided, and he had ridden over enough of them to know. He'd seen roads in the Archipelago made wide and smooth for all weathers—perhaps Iselle and Bergon needed to import some Roknari masons. Better roads, with fewer bandits on them, would do a world of good for Chalion. Chalion-Ibra, he corrected this thought, and smiled as Foix gave him a leg up onto his horse.

Palli had sent Ferda galloping ahead while Cazaril lingered by the roadside to speak with Royina Sara. As a result, the Zangre's castle warder and an array of servants were waiting to greet the party from Taryoon when they rode at last into the castle courtyard. The castle warder bowed to Cazaril as the grooms helped him down from his horse. Cazaril stretched, carefully, and asked in an eager voice, "Are Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon within?"

"No, my lord. They are just this hour gone to the temple, for the ceremonies of investiture for Lord dy Yarrin and Royse Bergon."

The new royina had, as anticipated, selected dy Yarrin for the new holy general of the Daughter's Order. The appointment of Bergon to the Son's generalship was, in Cazaril's view, a brilliant stroke to recover direct control of that important military arm for the royacy, and remove it as a bone of contention among the high lords of Chalion. It had been Iselle's own idea, too, when they had discussed the matter before she and Bergon had left Taryoon. Cazaril had pointed out that while she could not in honor fail to reward dy Yarrin's loyalty with the appointment he'd so ardently desired, dy Yarrin was not a young man; in time, the generalship of the Daughter, too, must revert to the royacy.

"Ah!" cried Palli. "Today, is it? Is the ceremony still going forward, then?"

"I believe so, March."

"If I hurry, perhaps I can see some of it. Cazaril, may I leave you to the good care of this gentleman? My lord warder, see that he takes his rest. He is not nearly so recovered from his late wounds as he will try to make you believe."

Palli reined his horse around and gave Cazaril a cheery salute. "I shall return with all the tale for you when it's done." Followed by his little company, he trotted back out the gate.