Iselle pressed her hands together. "But what better way to end a war than with a marriage treaty?"

"Chancellor dy Jironal is bound to oppose it. Quite aside from wanting you for his own family connection, he wants Teidez to have no ally, now or in the future, stronger than himself."

"By that reasoning, he must oppose any good match I can suggest." Iselle leaned over the map again, her hand sweeping in a long arc encompa.s.sing Chalion and Ibra both-two-thirds of the lands between the seas. "But if I could bring Teidez and Bergon together..." Her palm pressed flat and slowly slid along the north coast across the five Roknari princedoms; pins popped from the paper and scattered. "Yes," she breathed. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened. When she again looked up at Cazaril, her eyes were blazing. "I shall put it to my brother Orico at once, before dy Jironal returns. If I can get his word on it, publicly declared, surely even dy Jironal cannot make him take it back?"

"Think it through first, Royesse. Think of all the issues. One drawback is surely the ghastly father-in-law." Cazaril's brow wrinkled. "Though I suppose time will remove him. And if anyone is capable of overcoming his emotions in favor of policy, it's the old Fox."

She turned from the table to pace hastily back and forth across the chamber, heavy skirts swishing. Her dark aura clung about her.

Royina Sara shared the vilest dregs of Orico's curse; she must presumably have entered into it upon her marriage to the roya. If Iselle married out of Chalion, would she shed her curse reciprocally, leaving it behind? Was this a way for her to escape the geas? His rising excitement was cut by caution. Or would the Golden General's old dark destiny follow her across the borders to her new country? He must consult with Umegat, and soon.

Iselle stopped and stared out the window embrasure where she had sat to endure Dondo's hideous wooing. Her eyes narrowed. At last she said decisively, "I must try. I cannot, will not, leave my fate to drift downstream to another disastrous falls and make no push to steer it. I will pet.i.tion my royal brother, and at once."

She wheeled for the door and beckoned sharply, like a general urging on his troops. "Betriz, Cazaril, attend upon me!"

15.

After some time casting about the Zangre they ran Orico to earth, to Cazaril's surprise, in Royina Sara's chambers on the top floor of Ias's Tower. The roya and royina were seated at a small table by a window, playing at blocks-and-dodges together. The simple game, with its carved board and colored marbles, seemed a pastime for children or convalescents, not for the greatest lord and lady in the land...not that Orico could be mistaken for a well man by any experienced eye. The royal couple's eerie shadows seemed merely a redundant underscore to their weary sadness. They played not for idleness, Cazaril realized, but for distraction, diversion from the fear and woe that hedged them all around. the Zangre they ran Orico to earth, to Cazaril's surprise, in Royina Sara's chambers on the top floor of Ias's Tower. The roya and royina were seated at a small table by a window, playing at blocks-and-dodges together. The simple game, with its carved board and colored marbles, seemed a pastime for children or convalescents, not for the greatest lord and lady in the land...not that Orico could be mistaken for a well man by any experienced eye. The royal couple's eerie shadows seemed merely a redundant underscore to their weary sadness. They played not for idleness, Cazaril realized, but for distraction, diversion from the fear and woe that hedged them all around.

Cazaril was taken aback by Sara's garb. Instead of the black-and-lavender court mourning that Orico wore, she was dressed all in white, the festival garb of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's Day, that intercalary holiday inserted every two years after Mother's Midsummer to prevent the calendar's precessing from its proper seasons. The bleached linens were far too light for this weather, and she huddled into a large puffy white wool shawl to combat the chill. She looked dark and thin and sallow in the pale wrappings. Withal, it was an even more edged insult than the colorful gowns and robes she'd hastily donned for Dondo's funeral. Cazaril wondered if she meant to wear the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's whites for the whole period of mourning. And if dy Jironal would dare protest.

Iselle curtseyed to her royal brother and sister-in-law, and stood before Orico with eyes bright, hands clasped before her in an att.i.tude of demure femininity belied by the steel in her spine. Cazaril and Lady Betriz, flanking her, also made their courtesies. Orico, turning from the game table, acknowledged his sister's greeting. He adjusted his paunch in his lap and eyed her uneasily. On closer view, Cazaril could see where his tailor had added a matched panel of lavender brocade beneath the arms to enlarge his tunic's girth, and the slight discoloration where the sleeve seams had been picked out and resewn. Royina Sara gathered her shawl and withdrew a little into the window seat.

With the barest preamble, Iselle launched into her plea for the roya to open formal negotiations with Ibra for the hand of the Royse Bergon. She emphasized the opportunity to make a bid for peace, thus repairing the breach created by Orico's ill-fated support of the late Heir, for surely neither Chalion nor exhausted Ibra were prepared to continue the conflict now. She pointed out how appropriate a match in age and rank Bergon was for her own years and station, and the advantage to Orico-she diplomatically did not add and then Teidez and then Teidez-in future years to have a relative and ally in Ibra's court. She painted a vivid word-picture of the hara.s.sment from lesser lords of Chalion vying for her hand that Orico might neatly sidestep by this ploy, a bit of eloquence that caused the roya to vent a wistful sigh.

Nonetheless, Orico began his expected equivocation by seizing on this last point. "But Iselle, your mourning protects you for a time. Not even Martou-I mean, Martou won't insult the memory of his brother by marrying off Dondo's bereaved fiancee over his hot ashes."

Iselle snorted at the bereaved bereaved. "Dondo's ashes will chill soon enough, and what then? Orico, you will never again force me to a husband without my a.s.sent-my prior prior a.s.sent, obtained beforehand. I won't let you." a.s.sent, obtained beforehand. I won't let you."

"No, no," Orico agreed hastily, waving his hands. "That...that was a mistake, I see it now. I'm sorry."

Now, there's an understatement...

"I did not mean to insult you, dear sister, or, or the G.o.ds." Orico glanced around a little vaguely, as though afraid an offended G.o.d might pounce upon him out of some astral ambuscade at any moment. "I meant well, for you and for Chalion."

Belatedly, it dawned upon Cazaril that while no one at court but himself and Umegat knew just whose prayers had hurried Dondo...well, not out of the world, but out of his life-all knew that the royesse had been praying for rescue. None, Cazaril thought, suspected or accused her of working death magic-of course, neither did they suspect or accuse him-nevertheless, Iselle was here, and Dondo was gone. Every thinking courtier must be unnerved by Dondo's mysterious death, and some more than a little.

"No marriage shall be offered to you in future without your prior accordance," said Orico, with uncharacteristic firmness. "That, I promise you upon my own head and crown."

It was a solemn oath; Cazaril's brows rose. Orico meant it, apparently. Iselle pursed her lips, then accepted this with a slight, wary nod.

A faint dry breath, puffed through feminine nostrils-Cazaril's eyes went to Royina Sara. Her face was shadowed by the window embrasure, but her mouth twisted briefly in some small irony at her husband's words. Cazaril considered what solemn promises Orico had broken to her, and looked away, discomfited.

"By the same token," Orico skipped to his next evasion like a man crossing stepping-stones on a steam, "our mourning makes it too soon to offer you to Ibra. The Fox may construe an insult in this haste."

Iselle made a gesture of impatience. "But if we wait, Bergon is likely to be s.n.a.t.c.hed up! The royse is now the Heir, he's of marriageable age, and his father wants safety on his borders. The Fox is bound to barter him for an ally-a daughter of the high march of Yiss, perhaps, or a rich Darthacan n.o.blewoman, and Chalion will have lost its chance!"

"It's too soon. Too soon. I don't disagree that your arguments are good, and may have their day. Indeed, the Fox made diplomatic inquiries for your hand some years ago, I forget for which son, but all was broken off when the troubles in South Ibra erupted. Nothing is fixed. Why, my poor Brajaran mother was betrothed five different times before she was finally wed to Roya Ias. Take patience, calm yourself, and await a more seemly time."

"I think now is an excellent time. I want to see you make a decision, announce it, and stand by it-before Chancellor dy Jironal returns."

"Ah, um, yes. And that's another thing. I cannot possibly take a step of this grave nature without consultation with my chief n.o.ble and the other lords in council." Orico nodded to himself.

"You didn't consult the other lords the last time. I I think you're most strangely afraid to do anything dy Jironal doesn't approve. Who is roya in Cardegoss, anyway, Orico dy Chalion or Martou dy Jironal?" think you're most strangely afraid to do anything dy Jironal doesn't approve. Who is roya in Cardegoss, anyway, Orico dy Chalion or Martou dy Jironal?"

"I-I-I will think on your words, dear sister." Orico made craven little waving-away motions with his fat hands.

Iselle, after a moment spent staring at him with a burning intensity that made him writhe, accepted this with a small, provisional nod. "Yes, do think on my pet.i.tion, my lord. I'll ask you again tomorrow."

With this promise-or threat-she made courtesy again to Orico and Sara and withdrew, Betriz and Cazaril trailing.

"Tomorrow and every day thereafter?" Cazaril inquired in an undervoice as she sailed down the corridor in a savage rustling of skirts.

"Every day till Orico yields," she replied through set teeth. "Plan on it, Cazaril."

WINTRY YELLOW LIGHT SLANTED THROUGH GRAY clouds later that afternoon as Cazaril made his way out of the Zangre to the stable block. He pulled his fine embroidered wool coat around him and drew in his neck like a turtle against the damp, cold wind. When he opened his mouth and exhaled, he could make his breath mist in a little cloud before him. He blew a few puffs at the ghosts that, pale almost to invisibility in the sunlight, bobbed perpetually after him. A damp frost rimed the cobbles beneath his feet. He pushed the menagerie's heavy door aside just enough to nip within and pulled it shut again immediately thereafter. He stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darker interior, and sneezed from the sweet dust of the hay. clouds later that afternoon as Cazaril made his way out of the Zangre to the stable block. He pulled his fine embroidered wool coat around him and drew in his neck like a turtle against the damp, cold wind. When he opened his mouth and exhaled, he could make his breath mist in a little cloud before him. He blew a few puffs at the ghosts that, pale almost to invisibility in the sunlight, bobbed perpetually after him. A damp frost rimed the cobbles beneath his feet. He pushed the menagerie's heavy door aside just enough to nip within and pulled it shut again immediately thereafter. He stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darker interior, and sneezed from the sweet dust of the hay.

The thumbless groom set down a pail, hurried up to him, bowed, and made welcoming noises.

"I have come to see Umegat," Cazaril told him. The little old man bowed again and beckoned him onward. He led Cazaril down the aisle. The beautiful animals all lurched to the front of their stalls to snort at him, and the sand foxes jumped up and yipped excitedly as he pa.s.sed.

A stone-walled chamber at the far end proved to be a tack room converted to a work and leisure room for the menagerie's servants. A small fire burned cheerfully in a fieldstone fireplace, taking the chill off. The faint, pleasant scent of woodsmoke combined with that of leather, metal polish, and soaps. The wool-stuffed cushions on the chairs to which the groom gestured him were faded and worn, and the old worktable was stained and scarred. But the room was swept, and the glazed windows, one on either side of the fireplace, had the little round panes set in their leads polished clean. The groom made noises and shuffled out again.

In a few minutes, Umegat entered, wiping his hands dry on a cloth and straightening his tabard. "Welcome, my lord," he said softly. Cazaril felt suddenly uncertain of his etiquette, whether to stand as for a superior or sit as for a servant. There was no court Roknari grammatical mode for secretary to saint. He sat up and half bowed from the waist, awkwardly, by way of compromise. "Umegat."

Umegat closed the door, a.s.suring privacy. Cazaril leaned forward, clasping his hands upon the tabletop, and spoke with the urgency of patient to physician. "You see the ghosts of the Zangre. Do you ever hear them?"

"Not normally. Have you?" Umegat pulled out a chair and seated himself at right angles to Cazaril.

"Not these-" He batted away the most persistent one, which had followed him inside. Umegat pursed his lips and flipped his cloth at it, and it flitted off. "Dondo's." Cazaril described last night's internal uproar. "I thought he was trying to break out. Can he succeed? If the G.o.ddess's grip fails?"

"I am certain no ghost can overpower a G.o.d," said Umegat.

"That's...not quite an answer." Cazaril brooded. Perhaps Dondo and the demon meant to kill him from sheer exhaustion. "Can you at least suggest a way to shut him up? Putting my head under the pillow was no help at all."

"There is a kind of symmetry to it," observed Umegat slowly. "Outer ghosts that you may see but not hear, inner ghosts that you may hear but not see...if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d has a hand in it, it may have something to do with maintaining balance. In any case, I am sure your preservation was no accident and would not be accidentally withdrawn."

Cazaril absorbed this for a moment. Daily duties, eh. Today's had brought some curious turns. He spoke now as comrade to comrade. "Umegat, listen, I've had an idea. We know the curse has followed the House of Chalion's male line, Fonsa to Ias to Orico. Yet Royina Sara wears nearly as dark a shadow as Orico does, and she is no sp.a.w.n of Fonsa's loins. She must have married into the curse, yes?"

The fine lines of Umegat's face deepened with his frown. "Sara already bore the shadow when I first came, years ago, but I suppose...yes, it must have been so."

"Ista likewise, presumably?"

"Presumably."

"So-could Iselle marry out out of the curse? Shed it with her marriage vows, when she leaves her family of birth behind and enters into the family of her husband? Or would the curse follow her to taint them both?" of the curse? Shed it with her marriage vows, when she leaves her family of birth behind and enters into the family of her husband? Or would the curse follow her to taint them both?"

Umegat's brows went up. "I don't know."

"But you don't know that it's impossible? I was thinking that it might be a way to salvage...something."

Umegat sat back. "Possibly. I don't know. It was never a ploy to consider, for Orico."

"I need to know, Umegat. Royesse Iselle is pushing Orico to open negotiations for her marriage out of Chalion."

"Chancellor dy Jironal will surely not allow that that."

"I would not underestimate her powers of persuasion. She is not another Sara."

"Neither was Sara, once. But you are right. Oh, my poor Orico, to be pressed between two such grinding stones."

Cazaril bit his lip, and paused a long time before venturing his next query. "Umegat...you've been observing this court for many years. Was dy Jironal always so poisonous a peculator, or has the curse slowly been corrupting him, too? Did the curse draw such a man to his position of power, or would any man trying to serve the House of Chalion become so corroded, in time?"

"You ask very interesting questions, Lord Cazaril." Umegat's graying brows drew down in thought. "I wish I had better answers. Martou dy Jironal was always forcible, intelligent, able. We shall leave aside consideration of his younger brother, who made his reputation as a strong arm in the field, not a strong head in the court. When he first took up the post of chancellor I would have judged the elder dy Jironal no more susceptible to the temptations of pride and greed than any other high lord of Chalion with a clan to provide for."

Faint enough praise, that. And yet...

"Yet I think..." Umegat seemed to continue Cazaril's very thought, his eyes rising to meet his guest's, "the curse has done him no good either."

"So...getting rid of dy Jironal is not the solution to Orico's woes? Another such man, perhaps worse, would simply rise in his place?"

Umegat opened his hands. "The curse takes a hundred forms, twisting each good thing that should be Orico's according to the weaknesses of its nature. A wife grown barren instead of fertile. A chief advisor corrupt instead of loyal. Friends fickle instead of true, food that sickens instead of strengthening, and on and on."

A secretary-tutor grown cowardly and foolish instead of brave and wise? Or maybe just fey and mad... If any man who came within the curse's ambit was vulnerable, was he destined to become Iselle's plague, as dy Jironal was Orico's? "And Teidez, and Iselle-must all her choices fall out as ill as Orico's, or does he bear a special burden, being the roya?" If any man who came within the curse's ambit was vulnerable, was he destined to become Iselle's plague, as dy Jironal was Orico's? "And Teidez, and Iselle-must all her choices fall out as ill as Orico's, or does he bear a special burden, being the roya?"

"I think the curse has grown worse for Orico over time." The Roknari's gray eyes narrowed. "You have asked me a dozen questions, Lord Cazaril. Allow me to ask you one. How came you into the service of Royesse Iselle?"

Cazaril opened his mouth and sat back, his mind jumping first to the day the Provincara had ambushed him with her offer of employment. But no, before that came...and before that came...He found himself instead telling Umegat of the day a soldier of the Daughter astride a nervy horse had dropped a gold coin in the mud, and how he had arrived in Valenda. Umegat brewed tea at the little fire and pushed a steaming mug in front of Cazaril, who paused only to lubricate his drying throat. Cazaril described how Iselle had discomfited the crooked judge on the Daughter's Day, and, at length, how they had all come to Cardegoss.

Umegat pulled on his queue. "Do you think your steps were fated from that far back? Disturbing. But the G.o.ds are parsimonious, and take their chances where they can find them."

"If the G.o.ds are making this path for me, then where is my free will? No, it cannot be!"

"Ah." Umegat brightened at this th.o.r.n.y theological point. "I have had another thought on such fates, that denies neither G.o.ds nor men. Perhaps, instead of controlling every step, the G.o.ds have started a hundred or a thousand Cazarils and Umegats down this road. And only those arrive who choose to."

"But am I the first to arrive, or the last?"

"Well," said Umegat dryly, "I can promise you you're not the first."

Cazaril grunted understanding. After a little time spent digesting this, he said suddenly, "But if the G.o.ds have given you to Orico, and me to Iselle-though I think Someone has made a holy mistake-who is given for the protection of Teidez? Shouldn't there be three of us? A man of the Brother, surely, though whether tool or saint or fool I know not-or have all the boy's hundred destined protectors fallen by the roadside, one by one? Maybe the man is just not here yet." A new thought robbed Cazaril of breath. "Maybe it was supposed to have been dy Sanda." He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. "If I stay here talking theology with you much longer, I swear I'll end up drinking myself blind again, just to make my brain stop spinning round and round inside my skull."

"Addiction to drink is actually a fairly common hazard, among divines," said Umegat.

"I begin to see why." Cazaril tilted back his head to catch the last trickle of tea, grown cold in his cup, and set it down. "Umegat...if I must ask of every action not only if it is wise or good, but also if it's the one I'm supposed to choose, I shall go mad. Madder. I'll end up curled in a corner not doing anything at all, except maybe mumbling and weeping."

Umegat chuckled-cruelly, Cazaril thought-but then shook his head. "You cannot outguess the G.o.ds. Hold to virtue-if you can identify it-and trust that the duty set before you is the duty desired of you. And that the talents given to you are the talents you should place in the G.o.ds' service. Believe that the G.o.ds ask for nothing back that they have not first lent to you. Not even your life."

Cazaril rubbed his face, and inhaled. "Then I shall bend all my efforts to promoting this marriage of Iselle's, to break the hold of the curse upon her. I must trust my reason, or why else did the G.o.ddess choose a reasonable man for Iselle's guardian?" Though he added under his breath, "At least, I used to be a reasonable man..." He nodded, far more firmly than he felt, and pushed back his chair. "Pray for me, Umegat."

"Every hour, my lord."

IT WAS GROWING DARK WHEN L LADY B BETRIZ BROUGHT a taper into Cazaril's office and drifted about for a moment lighting his reading candles in their gla.s.s vases. He smiled and nodded thanks. She smiled back and blew out her taper, but then paused, not yet returning to the women's chambers. She stood, Cazaril observed, in the same spot where they had parted the night of Dondo's death. a taper into Cazaril's office and drifted about for a moment lighting his reading candles in their gla.s.s vases. He smiled and nodded thanks. She smiled back and blew out her taper, but then paused, not yet returning to the women's chambers. She stood, Cazaril observed, in the same spot where they had parted the night of Dondo's death.

"Things seem to be settling down a little now, thank the G.o.ds," she remarked.

"Yes. A little." Cazaril laid down his quill.

"I begin to believe all will be well."

"Yes." His stomach cramped. No No.

A long pause. He picked up his quill again, and dipped it, although he had nothing more to write.

"Cazaril, must you believe you are about to die in order to bring yourself to kiss a lady?" she demanded abruptly.

He ducked his head, flushing, and cleared his throat. "My deepest apologies, Lady Betriz. It won't happen again."

He dared not look up, lest she try anew to break through his fragile barriers. Lest she succeed. Oh, Betriz, do not sacrifice your dignity to my futility! Oh, Betriz, do not sacrifice your dignity to my futility!

Her voice grew stiff. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Castillar."

He kept his eyes on his ledger as her footsteps retreated.

SEVERAL DAYS Pa.s.sED, AS I ISELLE CONTINUED HER campaign upon Orico. Several nights pa.s.sed, made ghastly for Cazaril by the howls of Dondo's soul in its private torment. This intestinal visitation did indeed prove to be nightly, a quarter of an hour reprising the terror of that death. Cazaril could not fall to sleep before the midnight interlude, in sick apprehension, nor for long after it, in shaken resonance, and his face grew gray with fatigue. The blurry old phantasms began to seem pleasant pets by comparison. There was no way he could drink enough wine, nightly, to sleep through it, so he set himself to endure. campaign upon Orico. Several nights pa.s.sed, made ghastly for Cazaril by the howls of Dondo's soul in its private torment. This intestinal visitation did indeed prove to be nightly, a quarter of an hour reprising the terror of that death. Cazaril could not fall to sleep before the midnight interlude, in sick apprehension, nor for long after it, in shaken resonance, and his face grew gray with fatigue. The blurry old phantasms began to seem pleasant pets by comparison. There was no way he could drink enough wine, nightly, to sleep through it, so he set himself to endure.

Orico endured his sister's visitations with less fort.i.tude. He took to avoiding her in increasingly bizarre ways, but she broke in upon him anyway, in chamber, kitchen, and once, to Nan dy Vrit's scandal, his steam bath. The day he rode out to his hunting lodge in the oak woods at dawn, Iselle followed promptly after breakfast. Cazaril was relieved to note that his own spectral retinue fell behind as they rode out of the Zangre, as though bound to their place of death.

It was clear that the fast gallop was an inexpressible joy to Iselle, as she shook out the knots and strains of her trammeled existence in the castle. A day in the saddle in the crisp early-winter air, going and returning from an otherwise futile interview, brightened her eye and put color in her cheeks. Lady Betriz was no less invigorated. The four Baocian guards told off to ride with them kept up, but only just, laboring along with their horses; Cazaril concealed agony. He pa.s.sed blood again that evening, which he'd not done for some days, and Dondo's nightly serenade proved especially shattering because, for the first time, Cazaril's inward ear could make out words in the cries. They weren't words that made any sense, but they were distinguishable. Would more follow?

Dreading another such ride, Cazaril wearily climbed the stairs to Iselle's chambers late the next morning. He had just eased himself stiffly into his chair at his desk and taken up his account book, when Royina Sara appeared, accompanied by two of her ladies. She wafted past Cazaril in a cloud of white wool. He scrambled to his feet in surprise and bowed deeply; she acknowledged his existence with a faint, faraway nod.

A flurry of feminine voices in the forbidden chambers beyond announced her visit to her sister-in-law. Both the royina's ladies-in-waiting and Nan dy Vrit were exiled to the sitting room, where they sat sewing and quietly gossiping. After about half an hour, Royina Sara came out again and crossed through Cazaril's office antechamber with the same unsmiling abstraction.

Betriz followed shortly. "The royesse bids you attend upon her in her sitting chamber," she told Cazaril. Her black eyebrows were crimped tight with worry. Cazaril rose at once and followed her inside.

Iselle sat in a carved chair, her hands clenched upon its arms, pale and breathing heavily. "Infamous! My brother is infamous, Cazaril!" she told him as he made his bow and pulled a stool up to her knee.

"My lady?" he inquired, and let himself down as carefully as he could. Last night's belly cramp still lingered, and stabbed him if he moved too quickly.